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COI'YRKWIT l)i;i'()SIT. 




THE LAST OF 

THE STUARTS 




The Tomb of the Stuarts at St. Peter's (Canova) 



THE LAST OF 
THE STUARTS 




A DRAMATIC POEM 
IN FIVE ACTS 



By CHARLES JULIAN r 

Author of "The Maestro,' Etc 




S905: 



THE REINERT PUBLISHING CO. 

DENVER, COLORADO 




Two aopies rtecttvoti 






\C\0'2 



^ 



(^ 



Copyright, 1905 
Bt C. J. Downey 



" By iift ttmr tnl;(n (^torge III tamt to tlft 
tijranr. tije rnmhat betatttn lagaltg anh Itfawrtn 
tttas ramr to an snb; anii (HlfarleB t.iaimrlt. 
alb. tipsy and ttfUUfaa, tnaa dQtns in Stalg." 

—Thackeray 



The Persons of the Voem 



Charles Edward Stuart, Known as the Count of 
Albany, Pretender to the English throne. ("Bonnie 
Charlie/') 

Henry Stuart, Cardinal of York, Charles Ed- 
ward's brother. 

Duke de Choiseul, Minister of Prance. 

Marshal de Broguo, also of Prance. 

Count Vittorio AleiEri, Dramatic poet. 

Duke oe Monte Libretti. 

Duke of Bracianno. 

Duke of Ceri. 

Duke Grimaldi, Spanish ambassador at Rome. 

Abbe Caluso, of Portugal. 

SiGNOR OrEANDINI, 

DoMENico CoRRi, A musician of Plorence. 

Francis Xavier Fabre, de Monfpelier, art student. 

A Tailor. 

Louisa von Stole erg-Gcedern, Countess of Al- 
bany, zvife of Charles Edward. 

Duchess of Monte Libretti. 

Duchess of Bracianno. 

Duchess Zagarolo. 

Signora Orlandini. 

Miss Walkinshaw, Morganatic daughter of the 
Pretender, afterwards Duchess of Albany. 

Abbess, Nuns, Courtiers, Servants, Etc. 



Place — Florence and Rome. Time — 178 — . 




Charles Edward, the Boy 




The First Act 





The Last of the Stuarts 



The ^irst <Act 



A PORTRAIT 

Place — Florence, Italy. 

Time — An October afternoon in lyS — . 

Scene — A room in the Uffisi gallery. 

Rest, Sir Leslie, is found not in sleep, nor yet in death, 
hut in the lives of other men; for sleep and death 
are blind to their own tranquility, but self-forget- 
fulness, the camera obscura of perceiving soids, is a 
joyous consciousness discovered by the gods, pure 
of all imll and difficult — so diffictilt—of capture. 
Snuff out the smofiing zuicl? of your own sorrows, 
Sir Leslie, a9id sit you in the proscenium of other 
men's and other times' ambitions. The stagescope, 
whence the glozv of zuisdom a^nswers to the philos- 
ophy of the passive darlsness! Let others live and 
will their ozvn notions endlessly, that zve may rest 
satisfied 174 the suspense of purpose. 

(13) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Fancy, the o'erruler of time and space, invites you to rest 
in the world of a gone century. A room in the Uf- 
iizi gallery — do you know it? The corridor beyond 
is known in the Italian as the Occidentale. The 
works which line the walls are hung to Fancy's 
taste — and not as I have seen them on my last little 
journey yonder. Not only hafue successive genera- 
tions of committees seen fit to rearrange these price- 
less possessions, but the caprice of government has 
replaced not a few and the vandalism of war has re- 
w^oved many to distant seats from which they need 
scarcely be expected to return. The most aggressive 
Egotist of all time, whose Egotism overran the 
states of Europe and measured its domitmnce by the 
perpetuity of the pyramids, may have caught a 
glimpse of this very room. And, of the host of pic- 
tures that Egotism stole for its glory, how many 
did the solution of war decree back to their natural 
habitations? 

One painting that you behold will not be found there in 
our own twentieth century, and your vigilant cart 
photographer, who sells reprints to the chance fas- 
cination of the tourist, nrill shrug his shoulders, in 
spite of the verdict of history, and tell you it never 
existed. Granted, if you will, that the portrait of 
Charles XII, the some-time king of Sweden, has 
shared the fate of its regal original and become an 
ingredient of a century's dust; still are we per- 
mitted, by grace of a half hour's Thalian vision, to 
take note of its more than imaginary prominence, 
to measure its severity of stature, made solemnly 
gorgeous by a coat of maroon satin, sprinkled at the 
collar zvith a cataract of elaborate lace, together with 
its deep green expanse of breeches and its black 
stockings; and, best of all, to analyse the thoughts 

(14) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

that the delineator attributed to the countenance of 
the warrior king of the North. 

I see you are distracted, Sir Leslie, by the many sight- 
seers — by those whose inconsequent mingling and 
varying shades of purpose render all degrees of enr- 
tertainment to one who looks in upon them for the 
study of action less than for the dermatication of 
human souls. We devotees of the pit have so ac- 
customed ourselves to eaves-dropping that our cal- 
loused perceptions may engage in the personal af- 
fairs of others without a tremor. What did you 
say, Sir Leslie? Yes, I should take them to be 
young Englishmen — well connected, no doubt, for 
they wear the British regimentals. Autumn is a 
proper time of the year for foreigners to visit Flor- 
ence. Here are Signor and Signora Orlandini, 
friends of royalty. Well may they take delight in 
exhibiting their city's possessions to the man of re- 
ligion. The Abbe Caluso of Portugal — / am sure 
it is he. The young man is Monsieur FabrE — 
Francis Xavier Fabre de Montpelier, who is 
studying art at the very source of its inspiration. I 
am interested in overhearing what the young French- 
man says to Orlandini. Listen, Sir Leslie. Self- 
forget fulness, remember. The philosophies of other 
men's lives are open to you. 

Francis Xavier Fabre. 

I FEED my thought's blood on them, Orlandini. 
If there be channels through and through the soul, 
Frailer, perhaps, and more invisible 
Than ducts that thread my body, I am sure 
They course with many colors that the sun. 
Sitting tear-stained and rescued from the storms 

(15) 



THE LAST OF THB STUARTS. 

Of afternoon, ne'er joyed his sight upon. 
I came to Florence with the student's rage 
To see — to see — to see; and I have seen. 
Behold— 

(Tenderly outstretches his hands toward the paint- 
ings about him.) 

SiGNOR OrLANDINI. 

(As though it were the duty of mature men to re- 
gard the glow of youthful sentiment as mere affecta- 
tion ) — 

— But not that you may bear report 

Of things you saw to your mouth-open friends, 

For vain report's own gluttony — saying, "Here 

"I saw the steps where the Magnificent 

"Di Medici trod to his dinner." "There 

"My melancholy, weeping eyes beheld 

"Where Julius Caesar tripped his giant toe." (Laughs.) 

FabrS. 
Not! 

Orlandini. 
Still, say they, th' Imperator, Caesar, 
Built him this city for the modern gape's 
Invention of a trade. 

FabrH — (Not unappreciative) — 
Caesar did well. 
The traffic in tradition gives the living 
Respect for the dead. (With measured paces) The guide, 

no doubt. 
Can step him this-wise in the very prints 
That Caesar left. 

Orlandini. 

(Wise men forget their steps, 
And do not dally gathering of them up. ) 
Saxon credulity spares a good price 

(i6) 



THE LAST OP THB STUARTS. 

To these poor beggars that know everything. 
Rare Britons ! (Laughs, as though it were a joke to he an 
Englishman.) 

SiGNORA Orlandini — (Approaching) — 

Ugh ! Why snort you at your peers ? 

fORLANDiNi continues to laugh.) 

Snort, horse! Now, laugh at your own folly. — Stay: 
I've heard a surfeit. 

Orlandini. 

Bah! 
Sign OR A. 

The Abbe says 
The prince approaches in the gallery — 
I mean the Count of Albany. Laugh not 
At the count's subjects. 

OrIvANDINI. 

What! His subjects? Lord! (More 
laughter.) 

Sign OR A. 
My words are square — I said ''his subjects." Though 
His British blood flows only in the crown 
He may not wear, and drinks he royalty 
From Tantalus's cup, I caution you 
Forget not that. They are his subjects, sir, — 
His subjects — . (The two Englishmen in regimentals 
pass.) 

There! The military garb 
Of the count's country. You defame yourself 
And honor England with a fool's laugh at her 
High sovereign. 

Abbe Caluso. 

I pity Charles. 

(17) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Orlandini. 

And I— 

That is : his festered heart, fierce though it be 
From the besetment of his age — (aside) — and wine. 
MontpeHer and I were bartering 
Our sober moments for some merriment. 
Nothing besides — eh, Fabre? 

FabrE. 

Nothing more. 
Orlandini. 
Then let us climb upon our pedestals 
Again. (The Signora seises him by the sleeve.) What 
trouble now ? 

Signora — (As the tzvo retire) — 

Count Albany — 

Fabre — (To Calusoj — 
Fathei', I am all soul with seeing. Ah ! — 
There is no finitude of hunger in 
The soul, nO' gorge of simple beauty for 
Celestial appetite. My immortal part 
Partakes of the immortal day by day. 
Doubtless, I seem o'er- fanciful, o'er- fond, 
O'er-something that must thrive in secret, lest 
Speech wither it. 

Caeuso. 

God send thee many years. 
My prayers attend the nursing-time of fancy. 
Reverence is God's primal gift tO' art. 
Revere above, below, God, self and men ; 
Yea, when thy tongue pranks wit, pay reverence to it. 
God laughs, but sneers not. 

Fabre. 

Didst thou hear me sneer, 
My father? 

(i8) 



THB LAST OF THB STUARTS. 

Caluso. 

No, 'twas Orlandini sneered. 

Fabre. 
Yes — while we waited Alfieri's coming 
I stood among the pictures, loving them — 

Caluso. 
Ah ! Sacred words ! Thoii hast the future in thee. 
No more of this. What can have overtaken 
The count? 

Fabre;. 

'Tis safe he's gazing at St. Mary's — 
Swelling himself stern over the prospect. Good ! 
That's his dimension. Presently he'll solve 
In what the Campanile is so heavy. 
Yet weighs so' little, and describe in full 
The moral that will carve a lily and 
A leper's hand both of one block. He's wise 
Of marble. 

Caluso. 

Let him fold his thoughts in stone. 
Come — the next room. 

Orlandini — (Advancing) — 

Hold. Will you leave your friends? 

Fabre. 
To the Dutch masters, until we are met 
By Alfieri. (Exeunt Fabre and the Abbe. J 

Orlandini. 

Which will be on earth, 
I trust. (To the Signoraj I said these scandals could not 

hide 
Themselves. Indeed, 'twere quite as easy to 
Bridle a vapor and defend the nose 
From a foul odor, as protect a prince 

(19) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

From the report of his own infamies. 
Renown will never run its good deeds through 
A sieve and circumvent the bad. The mesh 
Is not too fine to miss them. 

SiGNORA — (Petulantly) — 

That is mine. 
My very sermon you are borrowing. 
You ever would cash phrases from my lips 
And trick them up as your own children. 

Orlandini. 

Lord! 
Why should I quarrd with you upon a matter 
Of parentage? 

SiGNORA — (Waiving the issue) — 
My darling king aggrieves 
Me heartily. One moment, affable ; 
The next he falls a-dreaming and refills 
His broken spirit with such victories 
As can be lured with wine. 

Orlandini. 

Why don't you say 
He drinks? "Drink" is a good word and it means 
Only one thing I know of — "drink." 

SiGNORA. 

Signor! 

Orlandini — (Giddily) — 
What says the latest gossiper about 
His grace, the uncrowned king, and his wine-cups ? 

S IGNOR A — (Saucily) — 
Nothing about his cups, for they do not 
Reel with their burden nor go tumbling down 
Out of all grace. No scandal about that 
To set the world a-talking of his cups. 

(20) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

A goblet brimming- with the best Bordeaux 
Will never twitch a muscle. 

Orlandini. 

Good — proceed. 
About the prince, then, since you will contend 
And parry answers. 

SiGNORA. 

'Twas your challenge, sir. 
Orlandini. 
Ah, well. No matter. What about the prince ? 

SiGNORA. 

The prince is still the prince; and, for his wife, 
Louisa — we will say she's still his wife. 
The prince is called the Count of Albany, 
And sometimes the — 

Orlandini. 

A truce! 

SiGNORA. 

— the Chevalier 
St. George, — 

Orlandini. 

No more of that. 

SiGNORA. 

— and sometimes king, 
Because of a bevy of his faithful set 
Him on the throne of Scotland for a day. 
They would in time have had him at St. James, 
But that a few knaves, sicklier than yourself. 
Withheld their heads for fear of losing them. 

Orlandini — (Moving away) — 
O, well, I'll join the Abbe. 

SiGNORA — (Folloming) — 
As it is, 

(21) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

He's only prince, and his young wife is but 
A countess. That is all. 

Orlandini — (Returning) — 

So, you are done? 
Eternity of woman at an end ! 
God's will be done if he can set him bounds 
To the everlasting ! 

SiGNORA — ( Vindicated) — 

Now, give me a kiss. 

Orlandini. 
Pish! Kisses? Not I. Hold. Ah, what's a kiss? (What 
ambassadors are the lips!) 

SiGNORA. 

Think you that we were seen ? 
Orlandini. 

And what care you? 
Propriety is man's invention. Shame 
Will ever recognize her children. None, 
Perhaps, saw us, unless his majesty. 
King Charles the Twelfth — (Indicates picture on the 

left.) — But he would never start 

At trifles. 

SiGNORA — (Pacing before Szveden's portrait) — 
Still, he has a creeping cast 
Of th' eye that follows as I walk. 
Orlandini. 

If you 
Shall catch him at it, strangling a laugh 
In a somehow twitching noose of feature, throw 
Your snuff-box at him, till he sneeze himself 
Into a false perspective. 

Now, my sweet, 
What was the news you pocketed from me? 
Taunt me with facts, if you must prank. 

(22) 



T H B LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

SiGNORA. 

Listen : 
The prince this very day bade the discharge 
Of all his Highland servants, 

Orlandini. 

That is all ? 

SiGNORA. 

Pray you, what more? 

Orlandini — (That laugh again!) — 
To all his serving-men 
He gave his leave tO' travel. Without pay, 
No doubt? 

SiGNORA. 

Pooh, pooh! I said "his Highland men." 

OrIvANDINI. 

Ho, ho ! Poor Bonnie Scotland ! 

SiGNORA. 

Since you laugh, 
I'll not explain the cause. 

Orlandini. 

Another kiss. 
(Another treaty of the lips as the Signora glances 
furtively at the painted Scandinauian.) 

SiGNORA. 

His grace says he is growing quite insane 
With having ghosts tO' serve him. 

Orlandini. 

True — insane ; 
But what's his argument? 
Signora. 

Wraiths of the gone 
Affection, sieging him for burial. 
Scotland is his dead. His wounded heart 

(23) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Sees Scotland in the tempest of his sleep. 
This is the funeral rite. 

Orlandesti, 

The count is old, 
And dotage has no friend beyond its grief. 
Sorrow becomes the tenderest minister 
Of the last journey. He will bid them back. 
Mark — as he sums his balance, he will send 
For all the ciphers. 

SiGNORA. 

You dismiss old age 
With all the tearless logic of the books. 
Lopping each leafless branch. 
Orlandini. 

Not that. 

Signor A — (Hoarsely) — 

When I 
Have been dismantled by this splitting cough, 
The walls of earth will tell me I am mourned 
By one reflection from you — "God knew best." 

OrIvANDINI. 

I shall be comforted by what the priests 
Assure me — 

Signora. 

Always a mountebank. 

Orlandini. 

Indeed, 
If that can add you peace. — And I shall kick 
The dust up every day, to be restored 
To recollection of you. Many tears 
Will flow when you fly in my eyes. 

Signora — (Making practical demonstration of 
the prophecy) — 

As now. 

(24) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Orlandini — (Avoiding the fulfillment) — 
As now you do not. What a merry race. 

C ALU so — (Entering leisurely with Fabre) — 
God save us ! Children ! 

Orlandini — (To the Signoraj — 

Hold — the place is public. 

SiGNORA — (Subdued) — 
And what care you ? Propriety is man's 
Invention. 

FabrE. 

Ah — a mission for you, father. 
Religion was first born of conjugal 
Distraction. I'll seek for Alfieri. (Exit.) 

Caluso. 
Another day we shall return to this, 
Seeing a better homily's at hand. 
Albany and the countess come this way 
With a large suite. I pray you not strew thorns, 
More than already lie, upon his path ; 
Since, if the tales be true, they do not seek 
Worse conjugal example than themselves. 
Besides, let not his royalty discern 
A satire of itself in subject mold. 

{Something more engaging than the prating of a priest. 
Bother his sermon. Take a firm look at old Charles 
Edward, the last of the pretenders, as he enters from 
the corridor, leaning on the left arm of Louisa, his 
fair young zvife, the Countess of Albany, and fol- 
lowed by the Duke and Duchess of Monte Libret- 
ti and the Duke and Duchess of Bracianno. This 
is not the tzuenty-three-year-old youth of 'Forty-five, 
the Bonnie Charlie that frightened the wits out of 
George II. There must be some mistake. Indeed — 

(25) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS.. 

time is always making such mistakes. Error was 
ever a matter of chronology. We must accept the 
blotches on the cheeks and the crapulous nose, the 
knotty shoulders and the decrepit gait; hut still 
there remains some suggestion of the Jacobite idol 
as he muses and gestures among the pictures in the 
rear, displaying all the titled decorations pinned 
upon his bosom. Observe the quasi-military cos- 
tume, the imperious inclination of the head, the re- 
minder of gentility in the handling of his hat. The 
impetus of all that youthful ardor cannot die out in 
any life-time. Do you notice, as he turns to the left, 
that he carries a cane — and leans upon it, too?) 

Caluso. 
God save his grace. He hath a finii step still. 

Orlandini. 
Sober, by all that's holy! 

SiGNORA. 

Silence! 

OrIvANDINI. 

Who? 
Charles — (Before the portrait of Sweden's: 
king) — 
A sturdy visage. Perhaps too intent. 
Not free enough in its unfaltering hold. 
A supple glance becomes a soldier as 
A supple hand tO' him that plays the viol. 
He balances the battle with more grace 
When the sword of his eye is restless — thus : 
Concealing its attention. — I but guessed 
The man a soldier by the scar. 'Tis there. 
Whom is it likeness of? 

Duchess oe Monte Libretti. 

King Charles the Twelfth. 

(26) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Charles. 
Of Sweden ? Right. I should have guessed that too, 
By this — this somewhat quickened nerve of th' soul, 
Begotten of my father's anxious bosom. 
My kingly wit should recollect him well — 
Him that death renegaded from our cause. 
His brow entreats me. Yet, beneath that brow 
What ambushed cunning! — as, if it should love, 
'Twere love to lure, to- ravish power not love. 
I shall repent my first reflection : 
Aim, eyes — sharp, certain, without parrying; 
Speed straight through all the carnage to the goal. 
When Sweden fell at Frederickshall, that death 
Bequeathed black exile only to the Stuart. 
Death's banishment were preferable. Ah ! — 
Your stout ten thousand were as zero marks 
Without you. 

OrIvAndini — (To Calusoj — 

He affronts himself like this — 

Caluso. 
His grace is weeping inwardly. His tears 
Chafe as of brine his unforgetting soul. 

OrIvANDINI. 

It is his living. Relish fattens him 
On old reminders. See him — 

SiGNORA. 

Hush ! I listen. 
Charles. 
Louisa, was it heaven that forestalled 
His vigor in the flesh and left it painted 
Only? (Turning sharply.) What! Louisa, heard you 
that ? 
Louisa — (Behold, she has been chatting zuith 
the Duchess) — 
Your majesty is speaking? Yes — I heard. 

(27) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

I think the dress becoming. Now I look 
Again, I find it quite my liking. — Heavens ! 

Charles — (With threat ening anger) — 
You mock me — traitor! (To the men.) Stand you from 

between. 
My consort spews her wit upon her king. 
Crave pardon quickly. Heaven be the judge. 

Louisa — (At a distance) — 
Your royal censure runs in arrest of God, 
Whose thunderbolts do not, as some suppose. 
Carry his high decrees across the sky. 
Your queen shall ask forgiveness, though she knows 
No condemnation. 

CharIvES. 

Infidelity — 
Treason of sympathy! Guilty of what 
You are not, filling the void with witless things 
That savor in your smiles. For they who laugh 
Are traitors unto sorrow. Sorrow rules, 
And there is something sacred in his rule 
That calls you blasphemer. What better cause? 

Louisa. 
Now, since you measure the dimensions of 
Th' indictment, thus — so long, so broad, so deep, 
I plead myself unfaithful to your phantoms. 

Charles. 
Still you mock me. 

Louisa. 

Nay — not you, not you. 
Though still you dream the mockery is you. 
You taunt yourself, while I revere my lord. (Bows with 

humble grace.) 
Never his dead self. 

(28) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Charles. 

Did not I discharge 
My Scotchmen? 

Louisa. 

Aye, but prate of them forever. 
Be wise, and let the younger world adore 
The whiteness of your hair, 

Charles — (Running his Angers meditatively 
through his locks) — 

Ah, white, indeed! 
Only sequential years have made them fit 
For a life's diadem. Gray logic of the youth 
That time has harvested. Once they were gold. 

Caluso. 
Your grace, the tattlers gather. 

Charles. 

That I see. 

The king capitulates to the public gaze. 

(The Pretender retires to the left cmd stands alone be- 
fore the portrait of Charles XII. The others zvith- 
draw from view.) 

Age argues youth, youth argues age. These locks 

Could not be white had they not once been gold. 

Boasts she of reverence for the wintry crown. 

Remembering not from whence each season fades 

Into another? 'Tis vain adoration. 

And it must be forgiven. I forgive. 

Years forgive years — how else do the times thrive ? 

That which we have not lived we have not loved. • 

Gray hairs the debtor, and they owe to youth 

All they have earned, but youth must earn, as well. 

Such understanding I shall understand. 

Each age shall be its own interpreter. 

What years explored and what experience 

(29) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Full fathomed. Yea, oi all things yet to learn 
Death is the greatest, highest, the most precious. 

SiGNORA Orlandini — (Entering) — 
Your majesty — 

Charles. 

I am companionless. 
Walk with me from the corridor, Signora. 

(The two young strangers in British regimentals enter 
and pass through, not without pausing to respond to 
Charles Edward's fervent salute. If one thinks it 
is easy to forsake an ideal, let him attempt it once 
with all its bitter smitings! As the Prince and 
Signora Orlandini retire, the Countess of Al- 
bany^ the Abbe and Orlandini again appear.) 

Louisa. 
Your reverence will pardon this affront 
Of public latitude. Nay — hardly that : 
Pardon is sin's disclaimer, and the craft 
Of heaven regenerates false hearts. In this 
Shall not the surgeon's dispensation dare 
A fault of the adjustment less than offending parts? 
It calls for cure, not mercy, having failed 
The medicaster, Custom, to assuage 
The malady of circumstance. 

Caluso. 

Forget. 

Louisa. 
Ah, there's the disease — remembering. If his hour 
Runs mad with the affliction of regret. 
The retro-steps of a much-yearning soul. 
Fevered with years like old fermenting wine, 
Whiclj grows delirious by the compound of 
The once delicious grape, how the new fruit 
Must mortify in the old cask. Forget? 

(30) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

All might be fugitive but that the king 

Sees agony in every smile of mine. 

Discrete desires are glaring enemies 

Beyond entreaty. Ah — philosophies are swords. 

What is a crown to me I do not wear? 

I cannot cure the mischief. 

Ori^andini. 

Let the dead 
Bury their dead — my answer. Look not back 
Upon intolerable Sodom like the wife 
That checked herself in a salt obelisk. 

Caluso — (Solemnly to Orlandinij — 
Hold ! Woman plants her wisdom in the church. 
Yours takes its root of the world. 

Louisa. 

Nay — let it pass. 
We'll fill our life of phantom royalty 
With multiplied concerns : variety, 
A surfeit's freedom from what stultifies. 
Off with this monotone. 

Caluso. 

Some kindly act 
Were suitable to woO' his majesty 
From the untoward mood. 

Orl A NDi N I — (Drazving aside) — 

The priest is right. 

Louisa. 
There is a charm in living day by day ; 
And by each burst of the sun tO' vow yourself 
Blessed in little things is wiser far 
Than solemnly surveying the full length 
Of life like a dark story. Is there not 
Some talisman to charge with this simple spell 
The soul of an uncrowned king? 

(31) 



THE LAST OP THB STUARTS.. 

Caluso. 

Love is the spell. 

Louisa. 
Ah, something to be held between the fingers, 
An amulet, or — Here I have it. See. 
This brooch was from my father, who, I'm sure, 
Lived his life well, yet threw each day aside 
Like a spent cloak. This may be worn upon 
The bosom of my lord, a symbol of 
The present, of today's affections and 
Today's concerns. A childish trinket? — Ah, 
But childish trinkets trick this childish world. ' 

— By this to draw him from that black abyss 
Called yesterday? In truth, 'tis but a brooch, 
But when I explain my prettiest its moral. 
He will accept the path of its persuasion. 
"Once was I king," the haunted one will say; 
And I shall answer : "Tut— the 'badge of life' ". 

Caluso. 
Pray that it win, 

Louisa. 

I'm eager now to try it. 

(The Abbe and Louisa retire to the rear and begin mani- 
festing an interest in a painting of Fra Bartholomeo. 
Orlandini is discovered before the portrait of 
Charles XII.) 

Orlandini. 

You saw no scandal in my wife and me. 

But, on my soul, you played the devil with 

The prince's household. (A pause.) Pretty cos- 
tume, eh? 

My spouse indulges more his fancy than 

The countess. "Darling prince!" (Another pause.) 
Becoming — ^ha ! 

(32) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

I shall tell Alfieri about this, 
And hear him prophesy. 

(Who is this that enters zvith Fabre from the right fore- 
ground as the picture-loving countess moves with 
the Abbe to the rear? Judging by his youthful man- 
ner, his red hair and his black riding habit, it must 
be the strange Alfieri zue have heard so much of. 
ViTTORio Alfieri, agile, restless and eccentric! One 
would take him and his companion, FabrE, to be 
mere school boys, fresh from the academy at Turin. 
It is easy to believe, if it be true, as I am told, that 
the best likeness of Count Vittorio has come from 
the brush of Fabre. The young dramatist is seem- 
ingly oppressed with his own shyness.) 

Fabre. 

Why do you move 
So tardily ? 

Vittorio Alfieri. 

Do not disturb me, Fabre. 
I've been horse-backing toward Fiesole. 
My blood is rampant. 'Tis my practice to 
Settle the sediment and compose the stream 
Of my thoughts before I speak. 

Orlandini — (Turning) — 

The rake is here. 
Hi, Alfieri, it was only now 
I had you in my thoughts. 

Alfieri. 

I pray, release 
Me from them. I am in a dungeon of 
Calamity already. 

Orlandini. 

Did vou say 
"Calamity"? 

(33) 



THE LAST OF THB STUARTS. 

Alfieri. 

I did. My lines won't rhyme. 

Orlandini — (To FabreJ — 
There — did you hear? He says his Hnes don't rhyme, 
And therefore he's about to hang himself 
With one of them. (To A1.F1ERI.J I have a better still — 
A husband and a wife that do not rhyme. 

Ai^fieri. 
Oh, heavens ! Let them trot the meter of 
Parini. I swear, 'twill jog them both to death. 

Orlandini. 
Not ill advice. 

Fabre. 

Desist. 

Ai^FiERi. 

Hold — I said both. 
'Twould be unmannerly to have them die 
Together. 

Fabre. 

Alfieri, I protest. 
If Signor Orlandini is so bent 
Upon his joke, withhold your wit awhile, 
Until his wife is entered in defense. 

Alfieri — (To Orlandinij — 
Oh, you? (With abrupt, quizzical cynicism.) Your 
pardon — 

Orlandini — (Taken aback) — 

Not my pardon, pray. 
Signora is a tender wife. We do 
Not stir the currents of the air. 

Fabre. 

Not you? 

(34) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Then I am he that pardon issues to. (Kneels half-mock- 
ingly.) 

Orlandini. 
Get up, sweet boy. There walks the lady now — 
The very one. 

AlfiERI. 

She with Caluso? 

Orlandini. 

Right. 
Alfieri. 
She stands erect. He has not bent her. Who — ? 

Orlandini. 
No matter. (Aside.) The Signora will pluck out 
My tongue for playing gossiper. (To Aleieri.J A dame 
Of quality. Say, what think you their broil 
Was all about ? 

Alfieri. 

A lover. 



Orlandini. 

Alfieri. 

Orlandinl 



No. 

A child. 



No. 



Alfieri. 
Money. 

Orlandini. 

No. 

Alfieri. 

They surely did not quarrel. 
I've named the sum of all domestic strife. 

Orlandini. 
For once your wit is splintered at the edge. 

(35) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Fabre. 
Come, tell us, Orlandini. Do not keep 
Us hung up by the thumbs. 

Orlandini. 

'Twas this way, then : 
They split upon that picture yonder. 

Alfieri. 

Taste! 
And it was only taste? They did not quarrel. 

Orlandini. 
That is not all. 

Alfieri. 

Go on. 

Orlandini. 

Her master said 
His majesty, King Charles the Twelfth — 'tis he — 
Stood like a soldier and was built to fight 
In the prime cause of justice — such a one 
To bring an exiled monarch to his throne. 
And she — 

Alfieri. 

What did she say ? 

Orlandini. 

— Lightly replied 
She thought the costume splendid. Then they met — 
The hosts of domesticity arrayed 
Like magic, as when Frederick struck his tents. 

AlfiERi. 
He was a fool — You still insist they quarreled ? 

Orlandini. 
I do. 

Alfieri. 
— And she a prattler. Let the church 

(36) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Decree that none such wed. There'll be no more 

Of children to bequeath their folly to; 

And silly tongues that babble, babble, babble. 

Will quit the mouths of women. — In heaven's name ! 

("AlFiERi, strangely agitated, recognises the CouNTESS 
Albany as she turns and approaches with the Abbe. 
Counsels against too much wagging of the tongue 
have been uttered fro-}n time to time since the begin- • 
ning of history — but to zuhat purposed) 

You should have told me it was Albany. 

(Aside.) Fugitive speech is not all feminine; 

I have mistook the sex of silly tongues. 

Louisa — (To Orlandini^ — 
The Abbe bids me not to temporize 
With the indifference of our domestic breach, 
But join his majesty — you understand. 

OrIvANDINI. 

His counsel's from on high. 'Tis best. 

Louisa — (Turning to depart) — 

My thought. 
Aefieri — (To Orlandinij — 
I do not know the lady. 

FabrE. 

Nor do L 

OrIvAndini — (To Louisa J — 
Be firm with him. One moment — pardon me. 
Your grace — Count Alfieri. Monsieur Fabre. 

Louisa — (To AeeiEriJ — 
By name I have already known you — horses, plays. 
You ride both. 

Aeeieri. 

Letters have many a time, your grace, 
Unsaddled me, and left me limping. But — 
I pray the horse may never prove less noble. 

(37) 



THE LAST OF THB STUARTS, 

Louisa, 
And Monsieur Fabre — you — ? 

Fabre. 

I— 
Orlandini. 

His is the brush. 
Louisa. 
No better part. Unless 'tis — plays and — horses. 

AlvFlERI. 
A horse for a poet is a luxury 
His literary gallop does not gain. 

Caluso. 
Come — spend no longer time away from him. 
SignoT, the lady to her lord. 

Louisa — (Taking the arm of Orlandinij — 
Be fair: 
Give back the king his queen, and — claim your own. 
Stay — father. The two friends — no doubt they would 
Be pleased to see my house. Our court is gay 
Tonight, and gaiety will bless them. Adieu. (Bxeunt 
the two.) 

(One procures a good view of the young dramatist as he 
lingers in the foreground, twitching the end of his 
riding whip with the absent-mindedness that would 
expend itself in stroking his moustache if he had one. 
It occurs to an observer that Count Vittorio has a 
cast of countenance like that of Washuigton in his 
youth, the Washington that fought under Braddock. 
The Abbe and MonTpEUER have retired to the rear 
and Caluso has left his French companion intent 
upon the paintings.) 

Alfieri — (Alone) — 
At last we meet. We could not separate. 
Did we not meet. For, since the tugging of 

(38) 




Fabre's Portrait of Alfieri 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Dispellant motives holds love tense and makes 

The captive ends writhe in sweet anguish, I 

Am relished and ready for it. Let it come. 

'Twas prophesied a half a year ago 

In the proscenium — that night she tripped 

And smiled after the opera. Who sang? — 

'Twas ''Orpheus." — That tremor was the pledge 

Of furthei' trembling. Loving all extremes, 

I could not throw a mantle o'er the threats 

Of red Vesuvius if Italy 

Were doomed by it. I'll cinerate myself 

In Herculaneum ere I shall wish 

To dam a passion once pronounced. Go on — 

I'll turn not back till hell is gratified 

And flesh suffices pain up to the hilt. 

If I convene fine mischief in my soul 

Until it baits me mad, I'll write a play 

Of Isabella and her step-son. I 

Will play it boldly. — Fabre, what was said 

About a costume? 

Fabre — (Approaching) — 
Orlandini said 
She thought it splendid — Charles the Twelfth's, I mean. 

Alfieri. 
This painted thing? 

(He appears to be comparing Sweden's portrait with his 
own figure, as he walks and meditates before the 
painting.) 

Fabre — (As Alfieri retires) — 

Where go you now, my boy ? 
Alfieri. 
To write a sonnet. (Exit.) 

Fabre — (Presently) — 

And, am I the last 
Of this evaporated company? (Exit.) 

(39) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

(What is there about the atmosphere of pictures that lim- 
bers up the soulf Here are two others among the 
concourse of spectators that would fain be voluble 
under the spell of the brush. Assuredly French, and 
state officials at that. He that walks on the left is 
the minister, Duke de Choiseue. The other — ah, 
you know him? — Marshal de Brogeio. / know 
him by repute. They withdraw from the crowd.) 

Choiseul. 
We've lost him, Broglio. To track his steps 
Throughout this muhi-pictured labyrinth 
Calls for a St. Anthony in a spy's person, 
Detective over-instinct, halted not 
By tempting fruits strewn in the path of duty. 

Broglio. 
The guards said "in this room." 

Choiseul. 

I am watching here. 
Go ogle through the corridor. The king 
Is somewhere: it is his prerogative — 
To be alive. 

Broglio. 

Among the living, then, 
I'll seek for him. (Exit.) 

Choiseul — (Alone) — 

Troops are the instrument. 
Ten thousand ? — more. They shall be had for him. 
When the king-row invites us, who should halt 
At slaughtering checkers? Earth is full of men 
When Brunswick falters front. King George's throne 
Is but a bubble. Wilkes is only one 
Of the young thorns that prick it. Rebels abroad — 
America — the Falklands : these are things 
That Fortune reckons with. Stuart is king, 

(40) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

But usurpation poisons the traditions 

Of the Lord's kingdom. There's the cry to weld 

The elements of politics. We crown 

The king, and then — we crown his majesty. 

Broglio — (Entering) — 
I found him. 

Choiseul. 
Well? 

Broguo. 

Discovered at the door, 
Aiding the Countess Albany into 
The royal carriage. 

Choiseui.. 

Ho — the Countess ! What 
A queen for th' island colony of France, 
Against the stern Dutch hussy, George's mate. 
France married her to Charles. Ah, we are men, 
We politicians. These disturbers are 
Too fine a brood to have them cradle out. 

Broglio. 
The queen is beautiful, and France has been 
A hard god-mother. 

Choiseul, 

Tut, tut, tut, my man. 
She must have smiled you out of politics. 
Or smirked you honorable. 

Broglio. 

You've seen her not? 
Choiseul. 
NeA^er. Ah, me ! — But come, what happened then ? 

Broglio. 
As I approached, the king bent o'er the hand 
Of the Countess, kissed it, and merrily 

(41) 



THH LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Fastened a gem she gave him on his breast. 
I did not analyze the circumstance. 
With others by, we could not speak in full. 
Enough, however. We shall meet tonight. 
The Countess entertains. She has her court 
At cards, 'twas said, but after eight o'clock. 
We shall arrive before. 



Choiseui.. 

Broglio. 
Even to the letter. 



So all is well ? 



C H oiSEUL — ( Turning pktureward) — 
Let us study art. (Exeunt.) 

(Enter Alfieri. Ah, the evaporating company is be- 
ginning to precipitate again. Count Vittorio 
seems unduly circumspect, but his manner is doubt- 
less explained by the presence of this strange fellow 
that follozvs at his heels — a tailor, it would seem, 
judging by his garb. The poet gestures at the por- 
trait of Charles XII. as if he meant to hold a clinic 
over the painted likeness of the late monarch.) 

Alfieri — (Addressing portrait) — 
Never before a sartorial fashion plate — 
Were you? (To the tailor.) This way. Good tailors, 

like great poets. 
Spurn all suggestions, lest the masterpiece 
Wherewith men wrap their shanks lack the divine 
Trademark of individuality. 
Pride of creation forces us to wear 
Some very devilish fancies. But, for once, 
Disavow your art and be an artisan. 
I would become that apparition. 
That is conception — you compose the dress. 
Behold me there — in petto. I shall not 

(42) 



THE LAST OF TH B STUARTS. 

Gossip about this sacrifice of genius, 

If you but copy that — and copy well. 

Green — dark. And there — maroon, touched with a shade 

Of — vespers. Search the shops for yonder cloth. 

Make me as splendid as the Swede. You sense 

The rest? Enough, then. (Meditating.) Sweden's 

monarch hangs 
As the protagonist of a comedy — 
A daring one, if critics happen in 
Upon it. Alfieri will concern 
Himself about the tragedy. (Exit tailor, taking notes.) 

'Tis done. 
The critics now. LoA^e has a will for wit. 
The gods invented it, and still they laugh 
At old contrivances. 

(More precipitation in the shape of the mischievous Or- 
LANDiNi, entering surreptitiously , ivith his wife lin- 
gering in the rear. Alfieri turns from spreading 
himself before the painting.) 

A critic? — so soon? 

OrIvANDINI. 

The Countess has rejoined his majesty. 

Alfieri. 
Discriminating critic — better still. 

(Curtain.) 




(43) 






The Second Act 



A BAGPIPER 

Place — Florence. 

Time — Barly evening of the same day as preceding. 
Scene — Hall and music room in the palace of 
Count Albany, the English Pretender. 

We look out through the portico, over the valley of the 
Amo, as the twilight of the Italian evening grows 
dim to the point of darkness. Within, the lamps of 
the palace have just begun to hum. Speaking of the 
dermatication of human souls, Sir Leslie, we eaves- 
droppers do not require to come provided zvith scal- 
pel and lancet, for there is a place zvherein the soul un- 
sheathes itself — the soul zvould suffocate zuithout it. 
For ez'cry man there is an atmosphere of candor, and 
the mincing of the law may not invade it nor the 
sticklers of propriety defile it. Only we eaves-drop- 
pers of the pit may glimpse the society of friendship. 
Here shall zve find the Prince zvithin his home — and 
what is better, the home zvithin his home, whereof 
his household itself is not a part. You have heard 
that the Prince is a musician, have you not? Ob- 
serve the old-fashioned piana at the right of the 
salon and the violoncello leaning upon the stool. Do 
you suppose I do not know Count Albany's favor- 
ite apartment zvhen I see it? Observe for yourself 

(45) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

the bag-pipe of green tartan and silver trimmings on 
yonder wall to the left, the arms of Great Britain, the 
escutcheon of the Stuarts and the portraits of Jannes 
II and his son, lames the Pretender. The Prince. 
wUl be here, mark my word. 

This is merely a servant, with a tray of wine for his even- 
ing guests. An Italian servant, at that. Do you not 
recall what the Signora saidf And here is another 
native of Italy escorting a visitor. DomEnicO' 
CoRRi, the musician. Did not I tell you the Prince 
would follow shortly? 

DOMENICO CORRI. 

TJIS highness — is he ready to receive 
* * His music-master? 
Servant. 

I shall wait upon 
Him, signQr. Whom shall I say? 

CORRI. 

You know me not, 
WhO' have attended on his majesty 
So many months ? 

Servant. 

I am a stranger, sir — 
New to his household, as are all his men. 
The count has brushed off his old servants. 

Corri. 



What means this antic of his fancy — eh ? 

Servant. 
Thinking is not my duty. And besides, 
My tenure is by no means certain, sir. 
Already he is wavering in his will. 
Under the pleas of the Scotchmen. 

(46) 



Strange? 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

CoRRI 

Scotchmen ? Ah ! — 
I understand. You need not tarry longer. 
Tell him Corri is arrived. (Exit servant.) Ho! ho! 
Another of these tales. They all accord 
In their determined malice to depict 
Him monster. I, his friend, will promptly guess 
Good reasons in defense — rather, indeed, 
Be wrong in the invention of excuses than 
Truthful in slander. If the Scotch are gone, 
'Tis that the Scotch offend his resolution. 
They that repeat this tale therein accuse 
The man of manhood. — Curse the Highlanders ! 
(Sits at the piano and his fingers ramble over the keys.) 
Who could speak ill of one so musical? 
Surely I know the prince — except he veil 
Beneath this tender art some tuneless thing, 
Spectres that have no bards to sing the lays 
Of their uncanniness. Some dance of death — 
Nay I — lest my love arraign his highness for 
Hypocrisy, as one confronts a knave 
At prayers or chances on a highwaym.an 
Kissing his children. What ! Hypocrisy 
For smugglers to love music? — if while they love 
Their song they are not longer thieves but men ? 
Divinest art ! The sabbath of the soul I 
The purge of evil I Be the trysting-seat 
Of love and wisdom. Let the battle's smoke 
Tarnish the visage, and the lying court 
Grace o'er with placely smiles its countenance: 
Music is candor, though 'tis always kind ; 
Quiets the heart without deceiving. Rage 
As rage it will, 'tis rage at ugliness. 
The instrument in tune? 

fCoRRi ceases playing and takes up the violoncello, test- 
ing the strings as the Pretender enters.) 

(47) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Chari.es. 

The strings are pitched, 
Domeiiico? 

CORRI. 

I find them absolute. 
Charles. 
I pitched them ere you came. An absolute 
Monarch am I. 

CORRI. 

Each tone is at its post 
To do your bidding. Will you take command ? 

Charles — (Spurning the instrument) — 
No more, Domenico. The king must say 
Good morrow to his giddy memories. 
And muster all his fancies out of service. 
Just now I have endured the argument 
Of a Scotch emissary, come from the camp 
Of Highland waiting-men lately discharged 
For the sole crime of being Highlanders. 
Lord ! How they in the name of Scotland plead 
For reinstatement. Once that was a virtue, 
But — no more : I wear the badge of life. 

CORRI. 

I understand. Is music Scotch as well ? — 
That you reject its further ministry? 

Charles. 
Aye, Scotch, if you please. 'Tis not so much of the ear 
As of the heart that music gnaws at purpose. 
Let them that have no aching yesterdays 
Appease their simple hearing with melodious juice 
Wrung from the strings : you have seen peasant lads 
Sipping at grapes. And they, perhaps, that hold 
Music an art — and thence, philosophy — 

(48) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

May wash their thirst at the cool fountain head 
Of classic water : that you've seen as well. 
But Albany can neither sip nor quaff — 
Can only drown : or, if he cleave the waves, 
Be swept far from the shallows of the world. 
Beyond the mooring-s of the hour, tO' swoon 
Upon the surface of his memories. 
Music is life, and life is memory — 
His vital element. 

CORRI. 

This you forswear 
That you may live today ? 

Charles. 

I was at fault, unfaithful to my own, 
My memories so full that they forg-ot 
What is. Louisa — Ah, turn not away, 
Domenico. My thoughts are yours — attend. 
The queen have I been lost to, she to me. 
She her devotion offers, but finds none. 
This I have thought ere now at idle times. 
But lacked the understanding and the will 
To doff the past and wear the badge of life. 
The thing is changed : behold the emblem. 

(He lifts the fold of his coat and reveals Louisa's 
brooch.) 

CoRRi — (Moving to go) — 



Then, 



Let me not tempt your majesty to eat 

This lotus fruit. Corri will not oppose 

Art to propriety. But — I swear the Muse 

Is innocent of intrigue. She is pure, 

Nor even a king may hold her up tO' scorn 

For shameless blandishments, the purchase price 

Of his surrender. I resent the charge. 

(49) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Charlks. 
Nay, Corri, I am still a cavalier, 
From whom such slander is as far dissuited 
As blasphemy of heaven. Music ? Stay — 
I drink a toast to Music, though I dare 
No more embrace her. (Pours wine.) What shall I pro 
pose ? 

Corri — (Taking glass) — 
The truth — always the truth. Music abides 
The eternal truth. 

C MARINES. 

You're right, Domenico, 
"Eternal" is the word. Do not rebuke 
Me for my finite weakness. Life compels, 
Aye, captains every will ; musters, arrays. 
Flogs into battle, lashes mutiny. 
Stigmas the coward ; and courageous souls 
May not escape the finite. IVIusic is life — 
But 'tis eternal life, warring with men 
And measurable deeds of men, 
Corri. 

The toast ! 
Charles. 
I shall propose it. To the voice of God, 
Upon whose face, they say, none looks and lives. 
His voice is fatal, too, for who may hear 
The sacred measures and not cease to breathe 
The discord of the world ? The voice of God ! — 
Drink, Corri, drink. — Leave me my dissonance. 
(They drink, Corri sipping but half of his goblet's con- 
tents, zuhile the Pretender drains his last drop and 
looks into the bottom of the glass. The vessel might 
have been larger.) 
Corri. 
Strange aro^nment. I never heard before 

(50) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

That Music rivaled woman in the field 
Of love-making. In general, I find 
Song- the confirmed ally of passion. 
The Countess then cannot approve of song? 

Charleys. 
What? Hold — not that. When song goes forth to woo 
Some vagrant recollection, serenade 
Sea nymphs and war maidens — that — that concerns 
Another attitude of the will. (Pours wine.) No more : 
Do not dispute the matter. Come. Again. 
The toast. Drink you to the consummate blossom 
Of human destiny, the flower that would 
Forget its roots, but tugs and twists in vain ; 
Or, if it should be severed from its root-hold, 
Withers within the hand that plucked it. (They drink.) 

CORRI. 

Ah!— 
Still a condition. (^Charles pours again.) Are not con- 
ditions slander? 

Ch arles — (Hurriedly drinking) — 
Slander, indeed, if they befoul the tongue 
To stain with malice Music's chastity : 
Just as you say, Domenico. 

Cqrri — (Sitting at piano and improvising 
softly)— 

The king 
7\spires in metaphor beyond my sphere. 
I am a man. My comprehension lacks 
The pinions of your heaven. 

ChareES — (Taking a last sip of wine) — 
Did you ne'er 
Spur forth intO' the vaulted distance? — hug 
The mane of the tempest? — leap upon a crag? — 
Vaunt to the wingless altitudes of vision, 

(51) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Laughing the heart's sail full of swift delight? — 
Or, bending lower, feel the wing-ed foot 
Hushing its tread upon the airless air 
Of strathspey dance? — drink kisses from the cup 
Of loyal virtue? — or with phantasy 
Span caverns of philosophy and lore? — 
Speed courage to the tower ? — aye, and exult 
In kinship with great kings at Scotland's hour ? 
Did you not these? 

CoRRi — (Turning from the piano) — 
I knew it ; yes, I knew it. 
Chari^ES. 
What knew you, Corri ? 

CORRI. 

That you were — musical, 
Charles. 
I am, I am. I cannot put it off. 
Souls may have shadows, too, that follow them. 
I plead the shadow, though it censure me 
Th' excuse. 

Corri. 

Why "shadow?" 

Charles. 

Name it a perfume, then; 
The sense-provoking witchery of the brain. 
Wherein conviction triumphs over conscience ; 
The hovering odor of an unblemished rose. 
Daring inseparable from the glands 
That quicken and inspire the innocence 
Of beauty. You are right, Domenico: 
I answer tO' the indictment, and the king 
Shall never more shake off the perfumed thing. 
Play on, and I shall join you. First of all 
A duty. (Touches a bell.) Aye, a happy duty, too. (Bn- 
ter an Italian servant.) 

(52) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Call back my Highlanders, my serving men, 
MacDonald and MacGregor and the rest. 
Send for them all. 

Servant. 

I — do not — understand. 

Charles. 
You lack-wit fellow ! You shall go to school 
To a sharp master, want of wages. Go! 
Out of my house! I'll have my Highlanders. (Exit 

servant.) 
Play, Corri, play. The Scottish lilt. Sound A. 

(Behold the aged Prince as he lifts the violoncello into his 
affectionate embrace — not the embrace of a leering 
roue, but the caress of a parent for his only daugh- 
ter. The music master voyages into the prelude of 
the strathspey, the Pretender listening intently the 
while for the time of the solo. Charles has touched 
his bozu to the instrument. The A-string has 
snapped, and Corri has ceased to play. Albany is 
in a rage and dashes the violoncello to the floor.) 

Hell ! Curse upon you ! Grovel at my feet. 

Is majesty asunder? Thou — a thing — 

A lying sinew? Minister of fate! 

No enemy, but worse : a flattering friend, 

Who casts his moorings at the very clutch 

Of fortune. Loyalty ! What instrument 

Shall God's anointed skill his hand to, that 

It warp not quickly with the rapture of 

Its own happiness? Hell hath appointed rats 

To build their burrows in the porch of thrones. 

And it was always that, Domenico. 

The tension of a cord some worm may gnaw, 

Until the homage snap. All destiny 

(53) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Hangs by an instant's slenderness. Ah, God ! — 

And did I live to see a slender day 

At Derby ? Rather, I should have marched 

Alone, and let my tame, remitting hounds 

Skulk to their fastnesses. (Rings bell; servant enters.) 

Let it be heard 
Upon the housetops that no Highlander 
Again shall serve Charles Edward, monarch. Go — 
T hire you now for life; the others, too. (Exit sei'vant.) 
Enough of Highlanders! (Drags down the hag-pipe 
from the zvall and hurls it to the floor; also 
dashes the nine set from the table.) 

CORRI. 

Be calm, my friend. 
C H ARISES — (Fiercely) — 
Call me "your majesty." 

CORRI. 

Your majesty! 

Charles — (Tenderly, follozuing a pause) — 
Your majesty ! So sweet, the fevered ear 
Would drown itself in drapery. Of food — 
'Tis irony to pallid lips. Of dreams — 
A spectre. Supplication — blasphemy. 
Only a Highlander could say the words, 
Domenico. You need not say them. 

CoRRi — (Aside) — 

False ! — 
He is Charles Edward now. 

ChareES. 

Your majesty! 
Up, innocence. (Raises znoloncello.) Across the sea 

I am 
No longer. (Examining the broken string.) Shreds of 
royalty! (Lifting the bag-pipe.) And 
you — 

(54) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

I do not hold you guilty. 'Twas the wine — 
But I'm recovered. Play, Domenico'. (Offers Corri the 
pipes.) 

Corri. 
I plead myself unmusical — at that. 

Charles. 
At this? You are Italian — the cloak ' * 

Of one opinion : that all the world 
Outside of Italy is barbarous. 
I'll answer you. (Prepares to play the hag-pipe. Enter 

a Scotch servant, whom Charles views 

with some embarrassment.) 

Corri. 

I've heard the argument. 

Servant. 
Two gentlemen attend, your majesty. 

Charles. 
Who be they ? 

Servant. 

French, by their dress, your majesty. 

Charles. 
Lord hang" the French! Ah — (With a sigh) — Show 
them in. (Exit servant.) 

Corri — (Moving) — 

Good night. 

Charles. 
Remain, Domenico. Their claws are sheathed. 
Amuse yourself. (Hands him the hag-pipe.) They will 

not tarry long. 
I shall discourage parley, for I know 
Their mission, and it cannot offer safe 
Credential tO' the court of my desire. ' 

I've braced my heels against persuasion. ■■[ 

(55) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Ah, by the way, (Indicating bag-pipe) that was a gift 

to me — 
Kilmarnock's widow — . 

(Enter Duke de Choiseul and Marshai. de Broguo.j 

What hour did you say ? 
Broglio. 
At eight, your majesty. The duke is here. 

ChareES. 
The minister? I am most happy, sir. 

Choiseue. 
And I the more tO' see your grace so young. 
I — Not alone? 

Charles. 

Nobody — a musician. 
Broglio. 
But— 

('Charles zi^hispers to Corri.J 

CoRRi — (Aside) — 
Noone — a Scotchman. (Exit zvith bag-pipes, 
iniinicking a Highland piper.) 

Choiseul. 

Aye — so young. 
Your shoulders — look, de Broglio — and a stride 
To measure attainment by. 

Broglio. 

Your eye is sure. 
The glance direct, the thread of it so tense 
That vulgar fancy might discern the toe 
Of acrobatic equilibrium 
Poised on the reach of its perception. 

Charles. 

Stay — 
What does such image argue ? 

(56) , , 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Choiseul. 

You are young. 

Charles. 
Pooh ! Idle wit ! If you profess me young, 
To blandish youth with shining sophistries, 
Your argument will but convince me old. 
God sends down lies as servants of the truth. 
If now you come with gifts of opiates. 
Enthralling memory, do not disturb 
The apocolypse you bear me. Sleep is kind. (^Charles 

places his hands over his eyes.) 
Blind-folded eyes see Scotch blue bonnets — more : 
And tartan pageantry — legions — a crown. 
Unhood his winkers. Where's the throne? (Points.) A 
stool ! 

Choiseul. 
Deception? Villainy! 

Broglio. 

Why should we deceive? 
Choiseul. 
We are your friends, believe — 

Broglio. 

Not luring cheats 
To smell you to a precipice. 

Choiseul. 

France, too, 
Should lose. 

Charles. 

She lost me from her border once 
B}^ making it a crime to serve me. 

Broglio. 

True. 
But that which is a crime today may be 
A virtue by tomorrow night. The clock 

(57) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Strikes more than hours. What is the time of morals? 
Noon. Of statecraft ? Midnight. Times are changed. 
The treaty's broken, and another king 
Hanovers England. 

Choiseul. 

Witless as a ball. 

Charles. , 

To shuttle him to Herenhausen — bah ! ;; 

'Twould be the end of the game, were Stuart there. 

Choiseul. 
Good ! 

Broguo. 
Bravo ! 

Choiseul — (Gesturing toward James II) — 

'Tis as though yon f>ortrait answered. 
Broguo. 

It has the ring of a whole dynasty. 

Choiseul. 
Besides, this Brunswick's ministers are galled 
Both in and out — mosquitoes and short breath. 
They have no joy. Democracy of Wilkes; 
Amei'ica's scant thraldom. 

Charles. 

What a fool. 
This bundle-worded German ! Does he speak 
In English? 

Choiseul. 

George? Well — yes. He piques himself 
On that nativity. 

Charles. 

Bastard Englishman! 
Great God ! — and do my subjects cringe to that? 

Broglio — (To ChoiseulJ — 
The devil's working. ^ 

(58) 



THB LAST OP THE STUARTS. 

Choiseul. 

May God bless the devil ! 
Charles. 
What is your offer, gentlemen ? 

Choiseue. 

London. 

Charles. 
London ! A name that means brave men, and ships 
With magic rudders ; swords that have not lurked 
In tarnish ; hurried plant of feet, but soft 
As the insinuations of a wanton ; 
Counsel of eagles — how the marches lie, 
Of head-lice — numbers; bar-cats — how defense 
Brawls flaw's in discipline; of barrack-dogs — 
What leader's boot sets them to yelping. And, 
If these we have, I grant you then we'll find 
London our London and our king her king. 

Choiseul. 
ril show you. Here. (Produces a packet.) 

Charles. 

Just letters? I have built 
Thrones of them — woven royal wreathes — and hailed 
Myself king in the most flamboyant fires 
That letters ever made. 

Broglio. 

'Tis quite enough. 

Charles. 
Some fretting Jacobite feels on his brain 
A blister, and he pricks it thus. What says 
The ooze? 

Choiseul. 

It runs in good example. (Reads to him- 
self.) 
C h arlES — (Impatiently) — 

Well? 

(59) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Choiseul. 
It comes from Spain. 

Broglio. 

What more tO' wish — ? 
Choiseul, — (Interrupting Broglio j — 

Let me — 
Charles. 
No, no ! Let me. Has Spain ten thousand men ? 

Choiseul. 
Tliey shall be had. You must to Madrid first, 
And greet the premier. There you will find 
The soil for planting. Seed it well, and, mark, 
With watering of fine words 'twill grow you men. 

Broglio. 
Ten thousand's but an ace of what you get. 

Charles. 
An empty cup! How know you this? 

Choiseul — (Extending the letter) — 

Read that. 
Spain's government will pay an army for 
A leader. Then, all that you give tO' boot 
Is — not to be ungrateful when you sit 
At Whitehall. 

Charles — (Reading) — 

"Land on Scotland's shores — " (Aside.) 
My head 
Could bring some fifty thousand pounds one time. 
The sale was never consummated. Nay, 
Exile, the type of purgatory, tO' 
Be shut from life and not admitted quite 
To death's full recompense, the limbo' that 
Is not of earth or heaven, exile : this 
Partook of, traded in my flesh. A slave! — 
Not to a task, but to the want of it. 

(60) 



THB LAST OF THB STUARTS. 

The heart's removal from its bosom ! Love 

That wanders Hke an airling the cold void 

Of place! A Highland thistle's alien wing, 

Restless for root in its own soil again ! 

And, to be loathed ! To have my absence prized ! — 

A royal leper, whose own children may 

Not smile upon him, lest the smile shall carry 

Taint to the breath ! "Unclean — approach me not !" 

(Reading.) "If but the prince can show himself as fair 

"As when he fought at Gladsmuir — " 

Broguo — (To Choiseulj — 

Stuart's alive. 
Choiseul. 
I see. That is not all. 

Charles. 

They trust me not. 
Even while they plead, they fear. They halt behind 
Conditions — whether Charles carries youth's edge 
Beneath his palsied sheath. Rust of old age 
They question, creeping on the adventure's risk 
Like children that amuse themselves with terror, 
Skirting the lip of a black pit a time 
And scampering off in the laughter of great deeds. 
Charles shall unmask himself. Off with you, years. 
What say the men of Scotland ? 

Choiseul — (Producing another letter) — 

Here they speak. 

Charles. 
Are friends of mine still there? 

Broglio. 

King George now asks 
Himself that question. His doubts are real, 
More poignant than your own, since Brunswick's skiff 
Skims closer tO' the issue. 

(6i) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Charles — (Taking letter) — 
Let us see. 

Broguo. 
His ills are many. Every bone of his 
Dominion aches and cries for drugs. 

Choiseul — (To Broguo j — 

He reads. 
We'll give his mind its unpersuaded field. 
Our aiming cannot drive the arrow more 
Direct than 'tis itself a-flying. 

Charles. 

Sirs, 
The patient future seems to 'wait me still. 
Nay, mark you, seventy times seven times 
Has Scotland's forgiving loyalty forgiven 
My tardy coming. But her king is dead — 
Has passed into the life of Italy, 
Another world, from which is no return. 
Henceforth I have erased the past, and I 
Forbear, as well, to write my name upon 
The parchment of the future you ordain. 

Choiseul. 
We do not hear your speech, nor will we hear. 
Your tongue is talking, not your judgment, which 
Must use the language of deliberation. 

Broglio. 
'Tis not the answer of a Stuart. 

Charles. 

It is. 
Choiseul. 
Ah, no. Shut not the gate. 

Broglio. 

We are not thieves, 
To trespass in and steal your character, 

(62) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

If you retire to bed and leave the hinge 
Unturned against our project. Let it pass. 
Tomorrow's sun will make it clearer. Indeed, 
It is my rule never to register 
A vow save in the presence of the sun. 
The reason mounts to its meridian 
With the ascending day. In this respect 
Am I one of the Sun's idolaters, 
Content with worshiping a shining orb 
That casts no mystic shadows. 

Charles. 

You are right. 
Tomorrow I shall answer. And meanwhile, 
In order to be fair with France, I shall 
Count over all my reasons, one by one, 
Unprejudiced. 

Choiseul. 

Good night, your majesty. 
I leave for France tomorrow. Broglio 
Remains in Florence. You must go disguised 
And carry letters which I shall prepare — 
Against your yielding : that you understand. 

Brogeio. 
Good night. 

ChareES. 

Stay, both. Some friends are gathered 
here 
For a night's pleasure. Join : you're of my court. 
I name you now. Fear not, they will not know — 
Festivity is poor at guessing. 

Choiseul. 

But— 
What say you, Broglio? 

(63) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Brogi.10. 

Put off your fears, 
Gay duke. Remain, and be more gay. 

CharIvES. 

Enough. 

(Touches bell.) 

You're travelers. (To servant, entering.) Attend these 
gentlemen 

Into the tiring-room. I'll send some wine. 

And join you later. (Exeunt the tzvo visitors with serv- 
ant.) 

^Charles looks out through the portico, over the river 
Arno.) 

The evening's very balm 
Breathes in the Highland tongue. (Turns.) Your 
majesty! 

fCn ARISES sits at the piano, and as his fingers ramble over 
the keys, he speaks:) 

If a' ye breathe, my Highland mou'. 
Be but the breeze of Inverlochen, 
'Twill swell my bosom up in praise, 
Wi' lusty shout, o' kilt and stockin'. 

If a' ye smell, my Highland snout, 
Be but the brae wi' green upon it. 
My heart will sniff the fragrance of 
The battle twixt the braid and bonnet. 

If a' ye see, my weeping eyne. 
Be but the towers of Edinboro, 
My soul will dance at Holyrood, 

And march to London on the morrow. 

If a' ye hear, my stooping ear, 
Be but the name o' Bonnie Charlie, 

(64) 



THE LAST OP THE STUARTS. 

We filabegs will up by night 

And scoot the reds sa smart and early. 

f Charles rises hastily and passionately addresses the sev- 
eral portraits of his ancestors.) 

Dinna ye ken that, dearies — what the bairn 

Was ta'kin' aboot ? Na are ye corpses yet, 

When a' your blood fa's like a cataract 

Into the waif's heart. 

(Turning.) — A heart tempestuous ! 

I am my own denominator. Since 

The world accounts all men at the lowest price 

It must by compulsion pay, I will exact 

Each lingering farthing of the niggard purse. 

The world will dole my worth out with a Jew's hand — 

But here I rise. The price ! My courage boasts 

The lineage of action. Courage! — 'tis 

The mother of men ; and cowards only breed 

From a desire to be at peace with the world. 

(Meanwhile, the music of the soiree is heard through the 
palace. As the Pretender stands, Louisa enters 
the portico in company with ladies. Louisa laughs.) 

The queen. Nor yet a queen. Would it were so! 

Would it were doubly so ! — that she were queen, 

First of my heart and afterwards my realm. 

My realm is least to me — and she, too, laughs 

At memory lingering o'er its losses. ^Louisa laughs.) 

Hark. 
That I have never conquered. If I lack 
The strength to lead love captive, why should I 
Entice it with possessions or a throne? 
First may I rule today, and then aspire 
Unto the sceptre of tomorrow. 

fCn arises takes the brooch of Louisa from his breast and 
holds it to his lips. As the Countess and ladies 

(65) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

withdraw from the portico, he turns and follows 
Louisa with extended gaze.) 

Wife! (Exit.) 

('CoRRi enters with the count's hag-pipe and replaces it 
upon tJie wall. He stands contemplating the instru- 
ment.) 

CORRI. 

A barbarous tongue — with no interpreter. 
Music and I are natives of one race : 
You were not born in Italy. Here's her child. (Takes 
up the violoncello. Exit.) 

(Presently there enter Signor and Signora Orlandini, 
the Duke and Duchess of Bracianno and Fabre, 
together zvith other guests. Clementina Wal- 
KiNSHAW creeps in among the company and is later 
discovered in modest retirement in an obscure cor- 
' ner. All the guests carry hands of cards and they 
discuss the game of zvhist. Signor Oreandini and 
the Duchess oe Monte Libretti drift together to 
the foreground.) 

Orlandini — (To the Duchessj — 
Persuade me not. Whist — whist ! Its very name 
Describes my disposition of it — whist! (Snaps his fin- 
gers.) 

Duchess. 
But everyone must play it, else they be 
Thrust into outer darkness. 'Tis the thing — 
Just come from England. 

Oreandini. 

England ? — That's enough. 
How do you say it — trump? I call for cups? 
Lead swords? Ah, my opinion is quite fixed. 

Duchess. 

A reason. 

(66) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Orlandini. 

I have two that should convince 
Nig-ht day. 

Duchess. 

And they? — 

Orlandini. 

The game's from England, first 
This — whist. A capital complaint. And then, 
No game of cards is relish to my taste 
That can't be played in company of ladies. 

Duchess. 
Fie on you ! 'Tis a modest game. 

Orlandini. 

Indeed ! 

Duchess. 
And must the men swear oaths at every hand ? 

Orlandini. 
You jest. 

Duchess. 

— That I may drive you out of jesting. 

Orlandini. 
Then, the game compels much thought. The mind 
Must reckon every throw, and hold accounts. 

Duchess. 
You're right. 

Orlandini. 

One cannot play and talk, too. 
Duchess. 

Humph ! 
What's that to do with ladies ? 
Orlandini. 

Ask the duke, 
Your husband. He will tell you. What I like 

(67) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Are basset and primero — highty-tight' ! 
I love the company of Eve too well 
Tb play at — what d'you call it ? — whist. 

Duchess. 

Sweet Adam! 
Your wit's as naked as the body of 
Your prototype. I will not talk with you. (Retires.) 

OrIvANDINI. 

She's gone to ask her husband to explain. (Follows.) 

(There is confusion in the rear as Ori^andini arrives 
among the ladies.) 

Duchess oe Bracianno — (Parrying -with her 
cane) — 
What means of torture choose you how to die? 
Some retribution ! 

Voices. 

Hang him. 

Orlandini — (As cards fly in his face) — 

Call a truce. 
Voices. 
A spy! 

OrIvANDINI. 

A shower of Spartan arrows. 

Voices. 

Spy! 

(As the confusion dies down, the Signora OrIvANDINI 
and Miss Walkinshaw are discovered in the right 
foreground.) 

Signora. 
My husband dies of soberness unless 
He's in a mimic battle. I should be 
A widow else. I feed him skirmishes 
And banter, lest I lose him. 

(68) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

Well for you. 
Would that the Countess knew my father thus. 
He might be happy, but she will not play 
The game he chooses. 

SiGNORA. 

And what game is that? 

Miss Walkinshaw. 
The game of dreams. Hers is the game of life. 

(Laughter in the rear.) 

Orlandini. 
Eat, drink, be merry, kings and queens. 

Voice. 



SiGNORA. 

Heed not their noise, my child. 
Miss Walkinshaw. 



SiGNORA. 



Advise her. 



And knaves. 

I do not. 

Say — 



Miss Walkinshaw — (Shuddering) — 
Whom ? She knows my parentage. 
I am a sin — a sin. 

SiGNORA. 

Tut, child. 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

Indeed : 
A sin I may not let disturb her peace. 
It shrinks within the shadow of my birth. 
And battles with itself. When she is here, 
I speed away, off to my casement. 

(69) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

SiGNORA. 

Ah— 
She loves you not ? 

Miss Wai.kinshaw. 

Less than my father. Him 
She pities. Me — . Her sympathies afford 
Dainties enough to keep her thoughts appeased 
Without devouring the black bread of hate. 

SiGNORA. 

A sorry creature, that loves no^one. 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

Ah!— 
The very kernel of it. Does she love? 

SiGNORA. 

Propriety in every act. She loves 

No man — perhaps ambition. I should hold 

The Countess true. 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

And I. 'Tis that that makes 
Me think her strange, so very strange. (Confusion.) 
She comes. (Exit.) 

Voices. 
We'll have a song. 

Duchess oe M. L. 

By Orlandini. 

. Voices. 

Good! 

Orlandini — (To the foreground) — 
My voice is ship-wrecked. 

Duchess of M. L. 

Out with the howitzers, 
And thunder all your guns to- bring relief, 

(70) 




Fabre's Portrait of Louisa 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS, 

Orlandini — (Coughing in imitation of a 
gun) — 
I'm sinking fast. 

Duchess of M. L. 

Should teach your voice to swim. 

Orlandini. 
Why not tO' fly ? — or flutter, Hke a tune 
From young Scarlatti ? 

Voices. 

Fly, then, fly ! 

Orlandini. 

I can — • 

My feathered choristers — tomorrow ; but, 
Tonight we'll pigeon it at home. Your grace — 

(All turn and discover the Countess of Albany stand- 
ing in the entrance leading to the portico.) 

Louisa. 
My joy is in the pleasure of my friends. 
Make me more joyous by more merriment. ^ 

Orlandini. 
More? We encourage mirth to greater pitch 
Already than becomes demeanor. More? — 
A riot. Since the quiet of the house 
Is now in splinters. More? — an earthquake. 

Louisa. 



Ah, 



My moderate-minded signor, you it is 
That quells as magically as you arouse. 
Master of ceremonies, Britain's court 
May fear no tempest, having you at the helm. 

Orlandini. 

She baits my vanity. 

(71) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Duchess of M. L. 

He was to sing, 
But the lark drowned his note at sight of you. 

Voices. 
Pray, let him sing. 

Duchess oe M. L. 

Yes, bid him sing, your grace. 

Louisa. 
The signor ? Stay — he cannot sing. His voice 
Is in his ears, his hearing in his mouth : 
Repeats forthwith to what he listens, harks 
To his own utterance. 

Ori^andini — (Posing) — 
A ducat to 
The first that batters me with yonder stool. 
I count a cracked skull merciful beside 
This gaiety. 

Duchess oe M. L. 

You're not to die until 
The executioner pleads that we leave 
A spark for him to pinch out. 

Orlandini. 

Mercy, then. 
A quarrel with Amazons, if prayers avail 
No respite, must atone with death. 

Voices. 

A prayer ! 
Come, let him pray. 

Louisa. 

He cannot pray. The gods 
Know not his voice. 

Duchess oe M. L. 

Indeed. And should they hear, 

(72) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

They'd fly for refuge in confusion 
Behind the thunders. 

Ori^andini — (Moving) — 

Flight's the only way. 
Voices. 
Stay, stay ! 

Orlandini. 

Where is the Count of Albany, 
The king? I'll find protection there. 

Voices. 

Stay, stay! 
Louisa. 
His majesty is sleeping. I'm the queen. 
Come, kiss my hand. ^Oreandini obeys.) Now let the 

rabble cease. 
By this decree I grant immunity : 
England, Scotland and Ireland will resent 
The voice of him that dares to call you fool. 

Orlandini — (Bozving) — 
Most gracious majesty. 

Duchess of M. L. 

Let us return 
To the card-room. We'll start another game. 

Orlandini. 
NotL 

Duchess oe M. L. 

Stay, then. (The company begins to retire.) 

Servant — (Entering) — 

Abbe Caluso' and 
Count Alfieri. 

Louisa. 

Bid thein enter. (Exit servant.) 
(Addressing Orlandinij Stay. 

(73) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

(Now is it clear zvhy the portrait of Charles XII of 
Sweden has vanished from the Uffizi gallery and 
from the ken of the art catalognists. An Italian 
tragedian has breathed life and animation into its 
painted soul and it has gone forth into the zvorld of 
men. In any event, it has paid a passing mortal 
visit to the first society of Florence — whither, it 
makes no difference. If this he resurrection — to put 
off the garb of the immortal arts for the fleeting 
haberdashery of a season's fashion — / will change 
my religion. Alfikri's intriguing fancy favors me 
with the only solution of a vexed question. The 
young dramatist enters in the pattern of the warrior 
king's painted attire, followed by the Abbe. The 
merriment of the dispersing cofnpany dies out in the 
galleried distances of the palace.) 

Louisa. 
Ah, father, you have broug-ht my happiness 
Home with your presence. Count, I welcome you. (She 
observes Alfieri's dress.) 

Caluso. 
God's blessing on your house. 

AlEieri. 

God's blessing, too. 

Louisa. 
Appoint me duties for your pleasure — both. 
The company is flocking to the cards. 
The Count — the king — will join us presently. 

Caeuso. 
I will not cloy, but oversee the game. 
What do they play ? 

Louisa. 

The game is whist. 'Tis new. 

(74) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Alfieri. 
From London. There I played some hands of it 
On my last visit. 

Orlandini — (Aside) — 

He has played it, too. 
I'll call for his opinion later. 



Louisa. 

Your pleasure, then ? 
AlfiUri. 



Good! 



ril hold the place that finds me. 



Louisa. 
You'll find yourself in many places ere 
You sum acquaintance with my company. 

AlvFlERI. 
Place am I reckless of. 'Tis time that taunts 
My being. Life must cease; world has no' edge. 

Orlandini. 

The Count's a traveler. 

Louisa. 

Yes: 'tis my regret 
My house was not ordained in seven days, 
Like God's creation, patterned out in seas 
And lands, in nations, mountains, climes; instead 
Of halls and porticos. Stay — you may ride 
Your horses up the great staircase and down. 

Alfieri. 
I'll sleep— 

Orlandini. 

Oh, ho! No, no! 
Louisa. 

Your choice. 

(75) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Alfieri. 

— And dream : 
Chained in the garden of Beatrice, chained 
With roses and dark hair, 
f Louisa turns away. There are roses in her hair.) 

Orlandini. 

Ho, ho! A jest. 
(Aside.) This Charles the Twelfth jests in philosophy. 
(To AivFiERi.J Critics do not concern themselves with 
dreams. 

Louisa — (Herself again) — 
Enchanting slumber — 

OrIvANDINI. 

Abbe, I am fond 
Of whist. Let's go. The ladies play it, too. 
That spices playing. (Exeunt the Abbe and Orlan- 

DINI.j 

Louisa — (To Ai^EiERij — 

Surely you could not sleep 
In the attire I saw a soldier wear 
Some years agoi in — Sweden ? Soldier, you ? 
Hay-ho ! The drums would wake you. 

AivFiERi. 

Say not that. 
I execrate all martial music. 

Louisa. 

So? 
Alfieri. 
It is the song of despots. 

Louisa. 

As for that, 
A chain of roses and dark hair has proven 
A despot's garland. Yes — the world is old, 

(76) ■ 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

And roses and dark hair are tyranny 

In the economy of poets only. 

But you, a poet, you discourse against 

Sceptres and drums, and let the garlands rule ! 

I — might have been a queen — 

AlFiERI. 

Dispute me not. 
I have eluded tyrants in my time. 

. Louisa. 
Pray, do not fear. I pledge my honor that 
I will not be a queen. No tyranny 
Shall spring from our brief meeting. Nay — I swear 
I shall be serf tO' quiet your concern. 

AivFiERi — (A side) — 
There's welcome in her eyes. (To Louisa.J I am at ease. 
Only my thoughts are silent, while they feel 
Grandeur, not mutiny. 

Louisa. 

Ah, speak your thoughts. 
I shall be subject to the majesty 
Of — Sweden. 

Alpieri. 

Alfieri's thinking does 
Not caper in this garb. 

Louisa. 

A handsome king ! 
What, then, about ? You will not g-arment it — 
Your meditation — in a somber hue, 
To turn me mournful when it ventures forth ? 
Speak, but be cheerful. 

AlFieri. 

I assure you that. 
A joke it is I'm meditating on, 

(77) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

An equivoque, so mercilessly rich 

Of humor that the walls would wrinkle laughing. 

Louisa. 
Tell it me : I was nourished on a laugh. 

AlyFlSRI. 

The scriptures speak of Jacob and his wells. 
He pierced the gravels of Judea that 
His flocks might water. We'll suppose a well 
Was here — I'll pace the story for you — , and 
Another here : twO' wells in the same field. 
If Jacob drew from one, he drew from two, 
Since they, as children of one parent fountain, 
Obeyed the level of their parentage, 
Receding, swelling — 

Louisa. 

True, I understand — 
In sympathy. Go on. 

AlfiEri. 

In Jacob's time 
This was the decree of Nature — physical 
And — spiritual. When one swelled with joy 
Or was depressed with sorrow, 'twas enough 
To swell or to depress the other. 

Louisa. 

True. 

AlJ'iEri. 
But let some modern Judah dig him wells ; 
We'll say t^vo wells within an area. 
Hardly more distant than, say, you and I. 



Louisa. 
So near? 



(78) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Alfieri. 

No farther. — What if we should find 
The sympathy of waters had abated, 
One rising at the flood, the other sinking? 
Suppose it. There's the joke. 



Calamity I 



Calamity's the mirth 



Louisa. 

Alfieri. 
You sense the joke. 

Louisa. 

Of your philosophy ? 

Alfieri. 

If this nightmare 
Has come to pass, what feeble prayer is left 
But laughter? Laugh I now. 

Louisa. 

It is not so. 
The tides of love respond. 

AlfiERI. 

Speak for yourself. 
And you say that, you who art not a queen ? — ■ ' 

To me who am not king ? The tides of love ! 
You that, whose blossom's not the rose upon 
Your hair ? — whose garland's something more than this, 
Your raven diadem ? You ? — whose mind leaps 
Like spray in the sun, when somehow kindred waves 
Balance or merge ? — here on the heedless sea ? 

Louisa — (Aside) — 
My heart will hear it, though it dare not, (To AlFiERI J 

Come — 
The air is heavy. To the portico. 

(79) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Firenze's lights think for me. Tell me there 
What works you labor on. 

AlFiERI — (As they retire) — 

Labor's the word. 

(^PoET and Countess turn toward the portico and there 
gase over the city as they pursue their conversation. 
And now appears Clementina Walkinshaw, en- 
tering softly and circumspectly by zuay of an obscure 
door on the right.) 

Miss Walkinshaw. 
Where is he now? — my father? (^AefiERI and Louisa 
are discovered.) Ah ! Look not. 

Surprise has bitten unwarily my sight, 
Which did not see. So swiftly, like a blade 
Of lightning splitting the crannied shadow of 
A wall ! My eyes have sinned an instant's sharp 
Iniquity, escaping ere 'twas born. 
I am that : a witless transgression 
That did not grow but leaped, a fugitive 
Black hell-root in the night, the Satan-sent. 

f AeEiERI becomes indiscreetly animated.) 

Ah, that ! Love fascinates my e3^es, my soul. 
For sin was ordered from its black recess 
To spy on love. Thence do I recreate. 

fLouiSA laughs softly.) 

Malignity, I crush you ! / could love. 
I love you, Custom's mother, for that smile. 
Shine back — two smiles, a lilies' field of smiles. 
I'd hate you else, my tears would scorn your heart. 

(80) 



THB LAST OF THB STUARTS. 

Indeed I think 'twas God that drew me here, 
To teach me thus the beauty of my birth. 
If with the eyes of hell I looked on love, 
My own unpitied, bleak fatality 
Would then be barren of God's recompense. 
All, all in one, I compass in my soul 
Love's wafture of the planets and the seas. 

Ai^FiERi — ( Turning J — 
No more. 

Louisa. 

Of the remaining years — ; 

(^Clementina is discovered.) You here? 
What is it, girl? 

Miss Waekinshaw — (Timidly) — 
My father — where is he? 

Louisa. 
How can I know? He is not here. Go, search 
His cups. Perhaps among the dregs, like a 
Wet fly, you'll find him, dripping towards the brim. 

Miss Waekinshaw — (Shrinkingly) — 
I go, then. (Aside.) Love loves everyone but me. 
(Exit.) 

Louisa. 
What were we saying ? 

A1.E1ERI. 



Louisa. 



Nothing. Words. 

No more? 

AefiERI. 
Stay — words that had been speech, if they were strewn 
All in a witless heap, and set to phrase 
By Ariosto. 

(81) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Louisa. 

Why not sort them out 
Yourself, Count Alfieri, poet? 

Alfieri. 

Hold! 
Call me a clod — parched : yearning to sustain 
The vernal sprouts once rife in Tuscany, 
But scarce succeeding to revivify 
The roots of Dante's language. ' 

Louisa. 

Speak the truth. 

Alfieri. 
But twice I thought myself a poet : once 
When by the sea I mourned the distance, wept 
To span the taunting reaches of mind-compass; 
Once when I beheld a man shot down 
For crying "Death to the king!" (Laughter is heard 
coming from the card room.) 

Louisa. 

Ah, tell me more. 
'Twas there you left yourself yonder above 
The Amo, winding also, secretly, 
Into the distance of the sea. 

Aefieri. 

The porch? 
— No more. What I should say next would fatigue 
Your approbation. 

Louisa. 

Nay, proceed. My wish. 
My husband once commanded ; I command. 

Alfieri — (Following a pause) — 
One day I met — a woman. 

(82) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Louisa — (Laughing with a show of disappoini- 
ment) — 

I had curled 
My thought up in a cushion's lap to hear 
A thing quite new. 

A1.F1ERI. 

It was not new, I grant, 
For long before I had known two others. 

Louisa. 

Oh! 
You loved them all ? 

Alfieri. 

Their minds I quite despised. 

Louisa. 
Despised their minds? Hay-ho! I understand: 
'Tis not Count Alfieri, poet, that 
You speak of. He will some day wed a bride 
With brains for dower. 

Alfieri. 

The gods should send her soon. 
Louisa. 
The woman ? — she that was the last — where now ? 

Alfieri — (With a shrug) — 
Dead — married — in a convent. 

Louisa. 

Far removed, 
Indeed. 

Alfieri. 

I wrote some verses. Yes, my first. 
I'm unforgiven still. I wasted them — 
To her I wrote — upon a barren ledge. 

Louisa. 
Go on. You wasted them. 

(83) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

DuKS OF M. L. — ( Entering) — 

Ah, here you are. 
The players sent me for you. 

Louisa. 

Presently. 
Tell them I'll slay them all when I begin. 

Duke op M. L. — 
Your pleasure. (Exit.) 

Louisa. 

Come — you wasted them. 

Al^FlERI. 

I did; 
But even waste has uses — feeds a root, 
Perhaps. And so with me. Ambition mossed 
The rest, and that was all. 

Louisa. 

Have you no verse 
About you ? — some thrice used, perhaps, that you 
May waste on me ? 

AivFiERi — (Rummaging in his pocket) — 
I have — no verses. 

Louisa — (Not to be deceived) — 

Come. 

Aefieri. 
They have not been thrice seen, nor twice, nor once, 
By other eyes than mine. A sonnet. New. 

Louisa. 
Ah, do not waste it, then. 

AlfieRI. 

That could not be. 
I would not waste your hearing on it. (Produces a pa- 
per.) 

(84) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Louisa. 

Read. 
Alfieri. 
Wait. I must look — (Reads to himself.) 

Duke of M. L. — (Entering) — 

Importunate! They say 
"No longer." 

Louisa. 

Quick ! Go say I'm coming. 

Duke of M. L. 

Good! (Exit.) 
Louisa. 
Well? Read. 

Aefieri — (Destroying manuscript) - — 
Imperfect! Travesty upon 
Too fair a poem ! 

Louisa. 

Stay — oh! Murder! Oh! (Gathers up 
scraps of manuscript.) 
Ai^FiERi. 
I slew only a counterfeit. No crime 
To stab pretense. 

Louisa — (Poutingly) — 

They will not patch. 

Al^FlERI. 

Indeed ? 
Rebellious words are worse. The one complaint 
I swore against the rhythm. You're learning now 
The art of poetry. 

Louisa. 

For shame ! — to rout 
A sweet creation back to chaos. (Scattering the torn 

bits.) Fly! 
A formless void. 

(85) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Alfii^ri. 

I'll muster them again, (Seizes her 
hand) 
When love has taught me beauty's secret. (Laughter 
within.) 

Louisa — (Drawing away) — 

They wait for me. I join them, but not you. 
I ask it. Ah, what do I ? 



Go. 



Alfieri. 

Let all time 
End here. Ask what you please. 

Louisa. 

Pray, turn your back 
On levity. Good night! 

Alfieri. 

Good night! 

Louisa — (Faltering) — 

Return — . 
Ah, do not you forget : more verses. Stay — 
The theatre condones. The custom grants 
Me gallantry. My cavalier you are, 
My public escort. I shall wait. Adieu. (Exit.) 

AlFiEri. 
I go. And gladly, as a captive, borne 
Away in chains of roses and dark hair. 
To be commanded ! Ah, what more? It grows. 
Love's candor is not the bud, it is the bloom. (Exit.) 

fDuKE DE Choiseul and Marshal de Broglio enter.) 

Choiseul. 
I have not seen him since our parley. 

(86) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Broglio. 

No— 
Nor I, nor I. Remember how he spoke : 
"I'll send some wine, and join you later." 

Choiseul. 

Ha! 

A drinking bout! He must be got away 
From this frivolity. A glimpse of war 
Will harden him. Look to your duty, sir. 

Brogijo. 
Leave that to me. If Spain arrays her troops, 
I will array a king to lead them. (Laughter within.) 

Choiseul. 

Hark. 
More voices taint their breath with the disease. 
Go, guard his highness. I shall not remain. 
Keep me advised by letter. Fare you well. (Exit.) 

Broglio. 
A knave may win at cards, but there's a game 
Bolder and played with men. Leave that to me. 
The sound's approaching. Who's regaled himself ? 
A stalk of barley typifies the sway 
Of drunken royalty. Let majesty 
Reel from its throne, it cannot climb again. 

f Broglio withdraws into a secluded position as FabrE 
and Orlandini eitter, bearing up the struggling, tot- 
tering form of the Duke oe Bracianno. They are 
followed by the Duchess of Bracianno and others 
of the company.) 

Duke of Bracianno — (Intoxicated) — 
You do me grave injustice. Hold, I say. 
You have not heard but half. 

(87) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Duchess. 

Lead him away, 

Duke. 
Where is the king? I wish to bid my host 
Sweet slumber. Plague me not. — And I shall go 
Myself to sweeter slumber, when 'tis done. 
The king ! Say, kingey, where are you ? 

Duchess. 

The king- 
Can no-one speak for him ? 

BrogIvIO — (Approaching) — 

The king withdrew 
From this apartment — look — an hour ago; 
And when he left, he spoke of sending wine. 

Duke. 
Ha! Wine, wine, wine. More wine, good wine, sweet 
wine. 

Duchess. 
Take him away. 

Duke. 

The king! 

(The Countess op Albany enters hastily and with a 
show of nervousness.) 

Louisa. 

Who calls the king? 
Count Albany is coming. 

(^Charles enters, erect and severe in deportment.) 

ChareEs. 

/ am king. 

' ' (88) 



THH LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

DuKK. 

Lord bless your majesty. You should have joined 
Old Bracianno in a glass of wine. (The Duke is led 
away.) 

CharIvES — (Taking a goblet from the hand of 

Monte Libretti^ — 
Is this his joy? (Smells.) My favorite Burgundy. 
There is much sharper wine. I've drunk of it 
Tonight. It does not so inebriate 
That madness banters wisdom to come out 
And sport with phantoms. It adjusts the wit 
In cool demeanor — (Eyes on LouiSAJ — else it mocked 

and swore, 
This furious instant, at its own black hue. 

(The Pretender pursues Louisa with his gaze.) 

It is the wine of hate, the wine of stealth, 
Of intrigue's prowess — laughter of deceit. 
In short, 'tis poison. 

— Take your ruddy wine. 
It is not foul enough tO' slake my thirst. 

Louisa — (In confusion) — 
Your highness ! 

Charles. 

Ah, you understand my gaze. 

Louisa. 
Has yonder girl been lying? 

ChareES. 

More and more ! 
Your conscience answers quickly. Yonder girl 
Is innocent of malice. 

(89) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Louisa — (A ngrily) — 

'Tis enough. 
Scum of your old amours shall not befoul 
My draperies. I will not hear. My ears 
Have caught the gout a-listening to your thoughts. 

fLouiSA turns on her heel and comes face to face with 
the Abbe Caluso, who straightzvay engages her in 
solemn conversation. The Pretender stands alone, 
stricken as it zvere speechless and sullen. Orean- 
DiNi enters and emerges from the company into the 
foreground, meeting the Duchess of Monte Li- 

BRETTI.J 

Oreandini. 
Where is he? 

Duchess of M. L. 

Who? Pray, listen. 

Oreandini. 

I must bring 
An expert's judgment to confront you with. 

Duchess of M. L. 
I cannot guess your meaning. 

Oreandini. 

Whist. The Count. 
Is Alfiei'i nowhere? — withered short? (Glances among 
the heels of the company.) 

ChareES. 
Whom do you seek ? 

Oreandini. 

Count Alfieri. I — 

Charees. 
The stranger ? True ! My royal nose can scent 

(90) 



THE LAST OF THE STUART^ 

Your purpose even by the thing you seek. 
He is not here. Why do you search him ? I am 
As certain of it as that Louis Last 
Is not in heaven. 



fLouiSA indulges in a sudden burst of laughter, mid turns 
from Caluso.j 

C ALU so — (To Charlesj — 

Let me befriend at court 
Count Alfieri's blameless gallantry. 
Like shadow-painted, spectral images, 
The king's implacable afflictions shroud 
The forms of beauty o'er with ugliness. 
Erase the past — 

Charlks — (Spurning the advance) — 

The past? The present, as well. 
I shall forget and bury past and present. 
The future skips before me like a maid. 
Running from school to scatter what was learned. 
I'm ready, Broglio. A month — no more. 
'Tis to prepare. Come, hail your monarch, friends. 
Stuart's the name of kings. 

(Another laugh from Louisa is cut short by a gesture of 
rebuke on the part of the Abbe.J 

Voices. 

Long live the King ! 

(The company disperses noisily, leaguing the Pretender 
alone with the Marshal de Broglio. The Prince 
stands in the portico , meditating in the direction of 
the Countess and her guests.) 

(91) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS 

BrogIvIO — (In the foreground) — 
Who drives the winds of social circumstance? 
Who heaves the bosom of every living purpose? 

Charles. 
What thing shall marble that fair laugh to stone, 
Or melt it, save the vanity of a throne ? 

(Curtain.) 




(92) 




T/ie ^hird cAct 

A CONVENT 

Place — Florence. 

Time — Afternoon. One month has elapsed. 
Scene — A street with a Servile nunnery in the back- 
ground. 

Now are we to encounter our acquaintances in the street, 
Sir Leslie. Out in the open air — suh Jove, as old 
Horatius puts it — where men hear testimony by 
witness of the sincere and liberty-loving elements. 
Hold — perhaps I am mistaken in the atmosphere. Is 
this a convent that overlooks the scene f — casting re- 
straint upon the testimony of men? If you would 
knozu a man, Sir Leslie, ask him the nature and 
dimensions of his religion. Clothe or unclothe his 
body as you please, each man is possessed of some 
such spiritual habiliment, and he will describe it 
minutely per invitation. Living and livings ambi- 
tions fly to the winds, and in the light of his own 
punctilious recital the m^n is revealed. 



Who are these that approach upon the thoroughfare? 
Nuns bound for the convent, led by their chaperone, 
the Abbess. This is the holy house to which they 

(93) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

belong. And our frail little friend, the Prince's 
morganatic daughter, following close upon their 
heels. Why is she so pale and why has she chosen 
black for her attire f 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

WHITHER, when love repulses ? If the earth 
Sends her pure souls to heaven, surely Scorn, 
The incompassionate, must halt without. 
A colony of heaven on this shore. 
This distant region only half explored 
By angels — shall I shelter here, or turn? (Retreats and 

promptly reconsiders.) 
I cannot. (Kneels upon the steps.) Mother ! 

Mother Superior. 

Someone calls. 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

'Tis I. 

M OTH ER — (D esc ending) — 
Sad girl. Thy need — what is it? 

Miss Waekinshaw. 

I know not. 
So black the world, no form is visible 
Above the prospect of my weeping. 

Mother. 

Come 
And pray. Enter with me. Give me thy hand. 
The soul's a darkened forest : prayer is light. 

(Exeunt within.) 

(^Alfieri enters and paces up and down before the con- 
vent, gazing upon the structure with the air of one 
zvho might be trying to judge the inside of a man's 
heart by the wrinkles of his surcoat.) 

(94) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Alfieri. 
This was the place agreed on — convent walls. 
We chose the symbol of confess-ed death. 
The world some worship till the world attaints 
Their first rebellion ; then — why, then they die. 
Not by disease, for 'tis their souls expire — 
Within these walls. No matter, since their souls 
Go from the world and in this ante- room 
Of heaven bide the digging of the grave. 
Fight, say I : die not till the sepulchre 
Is all in readiness, and mount the tomb's 
Staircase with backward step and face the crowd. 

(In the enthusiasm of his imagination, the dramatist 
climbs backward up the convent stair, as if retreating 
with stubborn resistance from a superior force. His 
right hand half reveals a dagger drawn partly from 
its scabbard beneath his cape.) 

Back, monarch ! Back, tradition ! I will gnaw 

Your hands with a sharp tooth. Away! I'll fall 

Of my own crumbling : touch me not. (Laughs.) — I 

win. 
The phantoms cower before me, and my brain 
Seeks pleasanter engagement. Swish ! They're gone. 
Now may I read again all that she writes (Produces 

letter.) 
I now must live O'U letters, for today 
Adjourns my courtship to an uncertain time 
And distant place. 

(Reads.) "When shall we each to each 
^'Speak our true thoughts again ? I tell myself 
"I shall not lose my poet, since his art 
"And he are one and messages may come 
^*In art's apparel — cannot poets write? 

(95) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

"I tell myself I may expect the stride 
"Of angry verse — angry in his behalf — 
"To vanquish distance and to rescue me 
"From dungeons. I tell myself — ." 

Oh, Lord! 
She tells herself, and tells herself, but tells 
Me nothing. What am I tO' learn ? Read on. 

"His madness aggravates, and every day 
"He passes me with sullen speechlessness, 
"As though his queen had murdered his regrets 
"And left him unbefriended. I can see 
"All the dead things that he would brood upon 
"Waiting for burial, lacking his consent." 

This dotard ! I am angry at the years 
That have polluted with such mastery 
Her purest charms. I shall not rest at night 
Until I know she sleeps beyond his house. 

"Tomorrow's well-contrived conspiracy 
"Promises freedom. We have spent the hours 
"Of our sweet month within — ah, what constraint 
"Of public scrutiny ! An interval, 
"And liberty shall reunite us — where? 
"May all go well with me; farewell to you." 

(^OrIvAndini has just entered, observed hut unobserving. 
AivFiKRi hastily folds his note and approaches the 
newcomer from the rear.) 

ORIvANDINI. 

The thing is going well. The Countess comes, 
Protecting her protector. Which deceives 
The other in pretense? I sometimes think 
Them lovers. (Moves away.) 

(96) 



THU LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Alfieri. 
Stay. 

Orlandini. 



Ai^FiERi. 

OkIvANDINI. 



Ah, Alfieri. 

Done? 



It is. 



AlvFlERI. 
The plan works well — in the first stage. 
The second will sequent it, natural 
As logic. 

Orlandini. 
Proof enough 'twas your device. 

Al^FlERI. 
I am her friend. The abominable dog 
Shall whine for his kingly kennel without ears 
Tb hear his plaint. 

Orlandini, 

Your enmity contrives 
Hard metaphors for one of his gray hairs. 

AlvFlERI. 
'Tis only proper language to declare 
That a dog whines. I'll pity his gray hairs 
When their hoar-frost has ceased tO' chill my friend. 
Resentment cloys my sympathy. 

Orlandini. 

Alas! 
The prince loves you nO' better. 

Alfieri. 

What says he? 

(97) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Orlandini. 
He blacks you with a chimney's angry soot — 

Alfieri. 
No doubt. 

Orlandini. 

— And leaves you thus : that even your 
friends 
Might pass you on the Ponte Vecchio 
And say, ''There goes the devil." 

Alfieri. 

It would be 
Unfruitful tO' expect of malice that 
It spring from other than malicious soil. 
— And may I occupy a box with her 
At the Pergola ? That is black, as well ? 

Orlandini. 

As servitor gallant, sharing his wife's 
Devotion to the opera — 

Alfieri — (Paten thetically) — 
— While he 
Is bandaging his feet to catch the wine 
That oozes from his toes — , 

Orlandini. 

— he hates you most. 

Alfieri. 
What says he ? 

Orlandini. 

That your wit would crack a nut 
With worms in it. 

Alfieri. 

Not that. Surely not that ; 
Else 'twould have split his skull ere this. What more? 

(98) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS 

OrIvANDINI. 

He said — . No, no ; I am no tale-bearer. 

AlvFlERI. 
Unstring your tattling tongue. What said he else? 

Orlandini. 
He prayed the gods would crown him king, that he 
Might bauble you his fool. 

AivFiERi. 

What regal grace! 
I'll prove not senseless of his favor. Say 
To his most gracious majesty that I 
Shall pray devoutly to become a fool. 
That I may choose him king. — About his wife, 
My lady, tell me this : how much of the 
Vlile cess-pool splashes her bosom ? I can take 
Strides too far-reaching to abhor his murk, 
If it but leave her pure. 

Orlandini. 

He taunts her — yes — 
In secret, and within the hearing of 
Myself and others. 

AivEiERi. 

Choke the monster ! God ! 
No lie can murder like the fertile lie 
That stoops the highwayman and clutches the 
White throat of chastity. I'll strike him cold. 

OrIvANDINI. 

Hold, hold ! The street ! Your rage is suitable 
For a closed room's vituperative. 

AeEieri. 

Bah! 
What god's decretal set this anger in 
The compass of the heart, and named it not 

l^f^rz, (99) 



THE LAST OF THE, STUARTS. 

Sweet music ? 'Tis the organ-master calls 
This war of drums, the fury of deep pipes, 
Else is all honor discord. 

Orlandini. 

Rage you, then. 
Roar like the billows, since tempestuous 
Oceans can no longer wreck the venture we've 
Embarked in. Echo is all yours. — The affair 
Gives promise tO' outdare your boldness. See. (Points 
right.) 

Al^FlERI. 
Stay. Do not leave me till I tell you this : 
Ducal annoyance summons me at once 
Back to Turin. So long as I shall hold 
My title by the patronage of state, 
I owe my residence tO' Piedmont. Well, 
Such is not Alfieri, who is free. 
And who's in love, besides — to make it worse. 
I have discovered this expedient : 
To settle my estates upon my sister, 
Julia, stipulating a return 
Of a just sum — say, an annuity. 
You understand ? 

ORI.ANDINI. 

I do. 

Al^FlERI. 

Farewell, then. 

Orlandini. 

Stay- 
Surely we meet again before you go. 
Adventure has made friends of us, I think, 
Who should not break their common interest 
Abruptly. It is something to have fought 
Beside a soldier, or contrived beside 

(lOO) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

A schemer, or secured beside success. 

A Spaniard and a Neapolitan 

Together caught a rascal stealing cheese, 

And they were friends for life recounting it. 

AlfiERI. 
Well, then, come to my lodgings and report 
The outcome. 

Orlandini. 

I'll be there. For me awaits 
The token of a traitor's smile — on these. (Exit.) 

AivFiERi — (Peering) — 
His royal cane is so uncommonly 
Behind in walking — that explains delay. 
God save the queen ! What is this thing called love? 
Lust, adoration, pity — all or one. 
I choose the second. — That I partake thereof 
He must not guess by my proximity. (Exit.) 

(The Marshal, de Brogeio enters circumspectly and sur- 
veys the street from end to end.) 

Broglio. 
Tomorrow finds my mission at an end, 
The pilot puts his vessel forth to sea 
And leaves it to its voyage. Some regret 
Will go with me from Florence that my stay 
In the society of her monuments 
Was measured by so brief a duty. — But 
The thing goes as we planned, and Spain's apprised, 
Prepared. Demons of strategy be praised ! — 
Domestic peace has hovered down again 
Upon his household, and the consort loves 
Her lord once more. He is the key, and I 
Shall hold the key. That is imperative. 
Thank God that I was born a politician ! 

(lOl) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

(Laughs.) I look with too emphatic gaze on this 

Ambition. Images desire enthrones 

Persist with the reaHty of stone, 

RuHng men maniac, idolaters. 

Unless, it may be, faith is turned to works 

And striving love is knighted genius. 

At least, it will be said that Broglio' 

Stood by his purpose to redeem a king. 

This is the spot the reincarnate monarch 
Will pass at three; the hour is threatening. 

Clouds prophesy a storm. My cape is light. 
A place of holy garb. 'Tis not the first 
Adventure of this kind religion's cheek 
Has gazed immodest on. 

(Peering into the distance.) 'Tis Albany. 

(As the Marshal de BrocIvIO retires into a secluded cor- 
ner, members of the Pretender's party appear by 
way of the main street. The Duchess of Monte 
Libretti and the Countess op Aebany are in ad- 
vance.) 

Louisa — (To Duchessj — 
The flounces and the draperies she wears 
Are scarcely native to her temperament. 
A costumer's a friend that measures thoughts 
As well as length of figure. Thus I have 
My moods draped o'er my person. Ohly two 
Prevail in general, but I temper them 
With lace and jewels or their abstinence. 
Behold me caring not toi laugh. (Her dress is subdued 
and simple.) 

(102) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Duchess. 

Indeed, 
It seems the facets of a diamond 
Declare its thoughts and so prescribe the setting. 
I've seen the visages of soulless jewels, 
And others, more like you, that have revealed 
Grave meditations through their brilliancy. (They re- 
tire.) 

(Enter Orlandini and the Duke of Monte Libretti.^ 

Orlandini — (To DuKEJ — 
The British army was defeated, and 
Burgoyne, their general, reports the rout, 
To the great consternation of the throne. 

Duke. 
Those savages — I mean the Americans — 
Make war like Europeans, — seem to show 
Quite civil methods when they fight. 

Oreandini. 

And since 
Their declaration of divorce from Britain — 
Oh Lord ! — somehow I give them victory. 

Duke. 
I pray not. 

Orlandini. 

Stay — should not a bride be freed 
From an unchosen wedlock? 

Louisa — (Approaching) — 

Come; this is 
The end of our perambulating. 

Duke — (Answering OreandiniJ — 

No. 

(103) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Ori^andini — (Arm to LouiSAJ — 
With me. (To the Duke, j On this colonial matter we 
Shall not agree until a battle solves 
The argument. As for the bride's dispute, 
We prove that presently, f Orlandini retires toward the 
convent with LouiSA.j 

Duchess. 

Where is my duke? 

Duke. 
Beside his winsome duchess, where he should 
Be always. (They recede and Charles Edward enters 

with SiGNORA ORIyANDINI.j 

Charles — (To Signora Qrlandinij — 
Ah, these works of nuns^ — they tire 
A body's legs a-getting to them. What 
Consists the exhibition ol ? 

Signora. 

O', lace, 
Embroidery, ceramics — 

Charles. 

Do these nuns 
Amuse themselves so ? 

Signora. 

It applies their hands. 
Your eyes are quite discerning — 

Charles. 

True. 

(As they turn toward the convent, Broglio approaches.) 

Broglio. 

Your grace. 

(104) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Charles. 
Good day, sir. Ah, 'tis Broglio. (To the Signora.j I 
come. 

^SiGNORA Orlandini retires as the two men draw aside.) 

Louisa — (On the landing of the convent stair) — 
A stalwart purpose — why should it disown 
Repentance, when this last of looks upon 
The last of kings startles my lachrymals 
And softly mourns my slain ambition, 
Which died of its own choosing ? Luxury, 
Indeed, to wash the heart in old emotions ; 
And what a thing it is to count the hurts. 
When they have quitted us, and sorting them 
Like kernels in the hand, to see if there 
Be not a pearl among them. Fare thee well ! 
The deed was heaven's. (Exit within.) 

(As Louisa enters the convent, followed by the Duchess 
OF MoNTE Libretti, the door closes sharply in the 
faces of the Duke of Monte Libretti and Or- 
LANDiNi. The latter two descend the stair.) 

Charles — (To Broglioj — 
The king is ready. This infirmity 
Is but a twinge of fancy. 

Broglio. 

And the queen — ? 

Charles. 
Knows nothing. She is not advised. Tonight 
My leaving will be broken to her. She 
Shall tell my friends that I am gone tO' Rome, 
To visit with my brother Henry, the 
Cardinal of York. 

(105) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Brogi^io. 

'Tis settled, then ; and well. 

Chari.es. 
Quite right, 'tis settled, for the instrument 
Of purpose has been forged with fervent flame. 
Bear to the German cur a challenge. Say : 
"Meet at the Tweed." And if the thief inquire 
Who seeks the throne of England, let him read 
The language that their blood writes^ — my reply. 
Well may his German witnesses translate 
The crimson cipher! 

Orlandini — (Approaching) — 

These discourteous nuns 
Severed the door between me and the ladies, 
Nor would let me pass. 

Charles. 

The devil! You 
Are somewhat tender in your mastering 
Of project. 

Orlandini. 

Mastering, indeed ! The door 
Is latched. 

Charles. 

Leave that to- Albany. The king 
Of England enters, if it cost a crown. 

(The Pretender stumbles with difficulty up the stairs and 
knocks at the door, -first ivith his Ust and later with 
his cane.) 

My summons mocked at ? Listen. Is the ear 
Of this religious house numbed by deceit ? 
Again. (The door opens.) The deaf are healed. 

(io6) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Abbess — (Appearing) — 

You scar the cheek 
Of pity with your blows. 

Charles. 

My consort — she, 
But a thought's parting since, entered this door. 

Abbess. 
Indeed, the Countess is within. Her grace 
Has taken refuge with the church. Disturb 
Her not. 

Charles. 
From whom? From what? 

Abbess. 

From self. (Exit.) 

C H ARLES — (Descending) — 

From me, 
From God — God's king. She trespasses on hell. 

Orlandini. 
It is by order of the government. 

Charles. 
You, too? I mark the treason. A knave's trick. 
To smuggle from me half my majesty! 
You of this nest of plotters ? Hence! Away 
From my discomfiture, lest you appear 
To mock at honest pain with a rogue's presence. 

Orlandini. 
I am not the traducer. Others — 

Charles. 

Out! 
A tattling tongue wags in a knavish mouth. 
I'll listen not to such — away ! — but search 
My own accusance. This play-writing count — 

(107) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Orlandini. 

The count is posting towards Turin. 

Charles. 

Enough. 
The devil works a-wing. 

SiGNORA Orlandini — (To her husband) — 

You schemed this thing. 
Orlandini. 
Not I. 

SiGNORA. 

A tool's thin edge ! Sharp, but a tool ! 
I will not nurse you more. I want a man. 

Orlandini. 
Though I be unmanned, still my legs can run — 
(Aside)— To Alfieri. (Bxit) 

Sign ora — (Relenting) — 

Husband, husband, stay. (Bxit.) 

CharIvES — (Apart) — 
Was not I bom one of Suspicion's 
Nephews ? My wakeful aunt has found a new 
Contrivance, a procuress in new shape. 
The assassin hides his waiting in his glove; 
The courtier sets his smiling teeth before 
His spittle-nurtured and dissembling tongue. 
'Twere easy to unhide the unripe thrust 
And shatter the pale grin of hypocrites, 
But when a shameless woman slinks behind 
These holy ramparts, all the gates of hell 
Shall not prevail against them. 

Brogeio. 

Your majesty! 
Religion will accuse her back again. 
Let this not trouble you. 

(io8) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Charles. 

Rather it spites 
To swifter action. Pray, reserve advice. 
The king is done with counsellors for wings : 
This insult is my strongest pinion. 

(^Miss Walkinshaw runs from the convent, kneeling 
before Charles. j 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

Sire! 
But let me feel your hand upon my head. 
Heaven has sent against me the one eye 
Whose vision withered me. — My desert breath 
Has learned to thrill on sorrow, and my throat 
Would choke upon a draught of happiness. 

Charles. 

Rise. 

Miss Walkinshaw. 
1 came here that my soul might lean and lean 
Upon some outward power. I could not stand, 
And, kneeling, my knees ached when she arrived. 

Charles. 
The one you speak of — ? 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

She, the Countess, father. 
Ah, sire, forgive me if I say my soul 
Has driven me out, for there the Countess prays. 

Charles. 
Forgive you ? Aye, I honor you. Besides, 
The king rewards his daughter. Stand you up. 
Duchess oi Albany. Here — wear this ring. 
France shall legitimate that title, and 
Myself your birth. Noone shall disrespect 
You, daughter. 

(109) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

Ah, the sun is shining. See, 
it blooms a splendid rose among the threatening 
Thorns of the tempest. 

1 will not ram today. 
The time is full of suns. The king cannot. 
Like Pharaoh, be discomfited in darkness 
By yonder supplication. Broglio, 
Tomorrow the appointment holds. Be satisfied. 

BrOGIvIO. 

And the disguise — ? 

V/HARLES. . J n\e. 

Arranged. 1 ne rumor, too. 
I've gone to Rome; but go you there in truth, 
To acquaint my brother Henr\^ with the venture. 

Miss Walkinshaw — (Aside) — 
The love my father missed I now forgive. 
It leaves a larger cranny for my love. 

Broglio. 
The deed is planted. 

Charles, ^nd the idiot 

Shall suck his thumbs at Herenhausen. Mark — 
Vesuvius raged again the other day. 
He is the timely metaphor of slumber — 
Such as a righteous cause keeps : not forever. 

Broglio. 
Splendid ! 

Charles. 

I will not fail. The king has found 
Redemption in a daughter. Come with me. 
Duchess of Albany. My arm. Adieu. 

(Curtain.) 
(no) 




Henry Stuart, Cardinal of York 



^^ ^SmK^ 1®^ ^^ 



The Fourth <Act 

A MANUSCRIPT 

Place — Rome. 

Time — Afternoon. Ten days have elapsed. 
Scene — Large receiving room in the house of Hen- 
ry Stuart, Cardinal of York. 



If I zvere an artist, I should zvant this room for a picture. 
But I shoidd spread my red Cardinal, on zvhere 
yonder chair sits. I trust that you may behold our 
Cardinal in it presently, that you ntay agree with 
the purpose of my fancy. Some men are said to be 
made by their dress, but I have known others to be 
made by the walls that surround them or the bed in 
which they sleep. One may commune daily zvith a 
deserted fence-post in. the midst of a Held and grow 
great upon it. My Cardinal must have visual en- 
vironments: this spacious iimntel set in the wall on 
the right, and massive andirons to guard a tire-place 
in zvhich thei'e is no tire; an elaborately gilded clock 
mounted by a figure of St. Augustine; zualls of deep 
shades, and tapestries that are alzvays relating 
strange anecdotes of history; and this zvindow on 
the left to overlook a garden, zvith heavy corded 
draperies to exclude too much of the light that makes 
suggestive fancy hideous; all these zvith other little 
things. Warmth, all told, that is not frivolous but 
majestic. Kindly, but luxurious. Profusely invit- 

(III) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

ing, hut not garrulous. Here is where you will Und 
my Cardinal, Sir Leslie, — when I become an artist. 

Only a servant. Now for our own unpigmented prelate. 
He has come to take his red place in yonder chair, 
fresh from his siesta, no doubt, judging by these 
yawns. 

The Cardinal of York. 
TJIS reverence, Borgia — has he visited 
■*• ^ The house today ? 

Servant. 

He has, your reverence, 
But finding it your napping hour he would 
Not wake you. (Exit after handing the Cardinal a 
letter.) 

Cardinal — ( Y&iuning) — 

No importance. Slumbering 
Shows Httle courtesy toward God or man. 
God speaks to sleep within sleep's own domain, 
And man can wait. (Inspecting the letter.) For me. 

The day is warm. (Sits and opens the 

letter.) 
What was I thinking of before I dozed ? 
"Monsieur de Broglio" — the French seal. Htim! 
"And may it please your reverence, the king, 
"Your brother, the most gracious sovereign 
"Of Britain — " Now I recollect what I 
Was thinking of. " — has matters of grave import 
"To transmit tO' your benign — " Hum ! " — ears." 
It was the wife of Charles engaged my thought. 
The Countess will be here this very hour. 
Ah, well, I care not if this writer of 
Dull tragedies attend upon her here, 

(112) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Under my roof : the roof is everything. 

Assuredly this poet may not read 

His pagan fancies to the ears of nuns, 

For to rehearse them in a cloister — Ugh ! 

Within the mansion of a cardinal 

Were decorous by contrast. Since she came 

To Rome, Louisa frets the sanctity 

Of her conventual life. I understand. (Reads.) 

"The king is in his vigor — ." Still a boy! 

If her accounts be just, I shall approve 

A separation. Let her prop her mind 

With learning from the poets. (Vawiis.) Poetry 

Is not SO' languid as this laziness. 

(The Cardinai, turns again to the letter in his lap, reads 
it through and rises to observe the hour by the clock 
on the mantel. He strikes a bell and a servant en- 
ters.) 

Welcome the writer of this — what's his name? — 
De Broglio — when he presents himself. 
Call me at once. (Exit servant.) 

So' Charles will interfere? 
Who- is this Broglio? A lawyer. Ah! — 
Wherefore sent he tO' France for an advocate? 
Are laws of wedlock all digested — drawn — 
In Paris ? Now, the cardinal may not 
Harken toO' tenderly tO' arguments 
Louisa puts. Lawyers have certain rights. 
Almost the too-kind-hearted cardinal 
Had given his countenance tO' her retreat. 
Still better to have both contentions. 
Lest Charles be the abused. (Servant enters with card- 
tray.) 

(113) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Servant. 

Your reverence. 

Cardinal — (Taking a card from the tray) — 

Admit her. (Exit servant.) We shall see. God wit- 
ness. Yes, 

Perhaps with God's aid, love may grow again. 

A clumsy instrument — man's hand — to build 

The fibre of so fine a mesh ! It breaks, 

And shredsi of sympathy revolt their cleaving. 

God only may appoint the manner of 

Love's happening. (Enter the Countess.^ Sister 
Louisa, rise. 

God's peace be with you. 

Louisa. 

Ah, your reverence, 
Your smile is grateful to me. May your joy 
Be ever confident as my recompense 
In trading wedlock for a holy life. 

Cardinal^. 
Body and mind are in accord with nature. 
Soul with God. 

Louisa. 

May nothing interdict 
That fond alliance. 

Cardinai,. 

Sit. Louisa. Rest. 
Your coming is of key with my own thoughts. 
See that you stay in tune. I have some news. 

Louisa. 
For me? 

Cardinal. 
The key — remember. 'Tis for you. 

(114) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Louisa — (Rising) — 
The prince is here. 

Cardinal,— (Laughing) — 

No, no. A lawyer. 

Louisa, 

What? 

Cardinal. 
A lawyer from the prince to intercede 
With me against you. 

Louisa. 

And you were too deaf 
To hear his plea? 

Cardinal. 

I did not hear him speak — 
Quite true ; nor see him. For he has as yet 
Not passed the door. He comes at five. 

Louisa. 

'Tis clear, 
I may not entertain — 

Cardinal. 

How is it clear, 
My sister? Are your eyes more keen than mine 
At fathoming- myself? 

Louisa. 

Why, then, this man — 
This lawyer? 

Cardinal. 

'Tis the courtesy of my house 
That welcomes him. 

Louisa. 

You do not wish me here. 
This interloper will afflict your mind 

(115) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

With fears of papal censure and deceive 
Your holy duty into doubt of me; 
Such doubt, indeed, that friends of mine cannot 
Attend me in your house. 

CardinaIv. 

This dramatist? 

Louisa. 

Count Alfieri — yes. Today he comes 
To read again his play "Antigone." 
And others I expect who will assist. 
The Duchess Zagarolo plays the role; 
The Count, the Duke of Ceri and myself 
Will act besides. Ah, I almost forgot 
Grimaldi, Spain's ambassador. That's all. 

Cardinal. 
Which do you most expect, Antigone 
Or this — Antigone's creator? Which? 

Louisa. 
The Count's a man, his work is poetry. 
I have nO' other answer. 

Cardinal. 

Love you him ? 

Louisa. 
Love you a woman ? 

Cardinal. 

Tut ! My vows abhor 
The sense of loving you conceive. 

Louisa. 

Ah, good! 
And this you apprehend my marriage vows 
Abhor. 

(ii6) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Cardinal. 

I love all heaven's creatures. 



Louisa. 



And 



I love all heaven's wisdom — and — 

Cardinal. 

— The Count. 

Louisa. 
I love him not. Oh, how can artifice 
Measure the genuine? Behold the church 
Denominating love a painted post. 
Whereas it is a tree. If it grows not, 
The trunk is dead, however beautiful 
The canon paints it. There's a duty left, 
To emancipate the stump from its pretense. 

Cardinal. 
No, no; not that. The church would trellise vines 
Over the lifeless thing. 

Louisa. 

Indeed ! I, too. 
But see the issue of my gardening. 
My vines were torn, distressed in brutal ways — 
You know my meaning : social tendrils, friends, 
Who' will cling loyally, though daily scandal 
Should blight them. So I moved my arbor. . 

('Louisa looks from the windozv on the left and her eyes 
discover a suggestive situation.) 

See, 
You have a garden trellised full of vines. 
(You should have told me, for I love green things.) 
There the deep shades reflect in silence on 
The glinting poems that the sun writes in. 

(117) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Ah, such indeed is the Arcadia 
Of interlacing spirits! And behold, 
Your garden has bright apples, mellowing. 
They are ripe souls, benign of circumstance, 
Whose one religion is their ripening. 
You do not taste the stunted ones. They are 
Not souls at all — God's cripples; and for them 
Heaven's a necessity. So, while I live, 
Louisa's soul will sip of other souls 
Possessed of flavor, bringing appetite 
To transubstantiate the body of 
Holy communion. 

Cardinal. 

Hold, do not blaspheme. 

Louisa. 
But still you will it that I ever eat 
Of one attainted apple, die thereon, 
Withal it writhes my tongue and aches my soul. 

Cardinal. 
This Alfieri is an ugly man. 

Louisa — (Impulsively) — 
You know him not. He's fair. His brow is high. 
His chin — . (The Cardinal laughs.) Ah, well, Count 

Alfieri 's not 
Too striking. No, not an Apollo', but — 

Cardinal. 
I have not seen the Count. I will not say 
He's more ill-parted than the rest of men. 

Louisa. 
T have seen scores that I held handsomer. 

Cardinal. 
His plays are dull, at any rate, they say. 

(ii8) 



THB LAST OF THB STUARTS 

Louisa. 
Yes, very dull and very ponderous. 
He carves a brain out of a molintain-top. 

Cardinal. 
And all his mountain images he sets 
Before you ? 

Louisa. 
True. 

Cardinal. 

What part, then, do you play ? 

Louisa. 
The ear, the thought that trembles when he reads, 
The breath that halts, the look that — only looks. 

Cardinal. 
Do not you praise him often? 

Louisa. 

Silence is 
The only praise I utter, and he says 
He hears it. 

Cardinal. 

I am satisfied. Perhaps 
Jehovah in his splendid solitude 
Bewailed himself an outcast, sorrowing 
For want of kinship. If he then ordained 
An all-beholding soul and called it Man, 
Empowered to know and love him face to face, 
Leaping from truth to truth, nor starkly struck 
With the dumb agony of wonderment ; 
Much more, indeed, are finite gods sustained 
By the countenance of understanding. 
Profound may be the voice, but measured by 
The depth of hearing. It is well to serve 
Utterance with comprehension. Sister, receive 

(119) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Count Alfieri here — within my house. 
Extend him peace. 

Louisa. 

He's waiting- at the door. 

Cardinal. 
Ah! What astonishment! We'll summon him. (His 
reverence moves to ring the servant's bell.) 

Louisa. 
Seek no formaHty. I'll fetch the count. 
He is retiring and you'll find him more 
Content than spirited at our neglect. (Exit.) 

Cardinal. 
How the affairs of heaven wait upon 
The will of women. 

(A servant enters and the Cardinal takes a card from a 
tray. Exit servant.) 

Ah ! De Broglio. 
My brother's advocate shall not behold 
The queen at her devotions. 

(As the Cardinal moves to retire, he is met by Louisa 
and Alfieri entering.) 

Louisa. 

I have brought him. 
Count, my brother. Cardinal of York. 
This is my dramatist. 

Alfieri. 

Your reverence. 

Cardinal. 
I welcome you. My benediction. 
We shall be friends in time, but by your leave 
I now attend on duty, not on pleasure. (Exit.) 

(120) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Louisa. 
The lawyer ! 'Tis the lawyer waiting him. 

Aivi'iERi. 
What laAvyer? Tender queen, something disturbs 
Your spirit from its accustomed majesty. 
When you're aggrieved, your subject mourns for you, 
The smiling princess oi the realm Louisa. 

Louisa. 
Ah, count, it is as though I were a child. 
Frightened at nothing — the creeping of a hinge — 
Until your coming calms me. 

Alfieri. 

Name the cause, 
And I will hunt it with a taper. Where's 
The ugly hinge that haunts the silence? 

Louisa. 

Him, 
The aged Albany, I fear. 

AlvFlERI. 

That hinge 
Chafes in its dotard rust. A noisy while 
It creaks, until corroding bites it silent. 
The hush — I hear it coming. 

Louisa. 

You know not. 
His agents are all active. (Points zuithin.) There is one. 

Alfieri. 
A lawyer. Ah ! And from the prince ? 

Louisa. 

He comes 
To perch upon my honor like a hawk. 
To steal it while 'tis living. He persuades 

(121) 



THE LAST OF THB STUARTS 

The cardinal, this very stroke of my heart, 
That I am wicked. 

Alfieri. 

Ho! Is Italy 
An assassin's prison that it holds you barred? 
Escape. Or rather, go. Go where you feel 
The air is purest and restraint least foul. 
To Germany. To France. 

Louisa — (Changeful) — 

The issue still 
Abides the judgment of the cardinal, who 
Approves the separation, I am sure. 

A1.FIERI. 
When Alfieri gained himself release. 
The obligations of his title were 
More urgent than your fortune or your vows. 
Decide. If need be — to America. 
She's Freedom's child. The world is wide enough 
For honest liberty. 

Louisa — (Impatiently) — 

Hold, wait and see. 
His reverence keeps genial mastery 
Over my will. Revolt from his benign 
Advice were like a rabble's mutiny. 

Alfieri. 
But if— 

Louisa. 
"If" is the devil's syllable. 

Alfieri. 
The devil, then. This man may argue true, 
Or with truth's likeness, and his tongue persuade 
Your brother's red cap — red's the devil's hue — 
You must undo what's done, re-wing your flight. 

(122) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Louisa. 
I will not. 

AlvFlERI. 

So? Then where's his mastery? 

Louisa. 
If, when he rules severe, I hesitate, 
He rules less hard, and then — I then obey. 

AlfiERI. 
A woman's heart loves steel until she loves 
It not. And if this lawyer stay — persist? 

Louisa. 
I will not bide his pleas. 

Aleieri. 

You'll disappear, 
Eliminate yourself from the argument? 

Louisa. 
I shall not run away, but I shall put 
Distance between my unhappiness and his 

AleiERi. 
How your unhappiness ? 

Louisa. 

Oh, I shall lose 
Mine by the way, if I be entertained 
With poems read to me. 

AefiERI. 

Ah, heaven's awake! 
Its opening portals suddenly reveal 
More than I ever thought a door could hide. 
You'll come then, quit the harbor of the church. 
And sail to a new horizon, where the sun 
Rises no more upon dead bones ! With me ! — 
To fashion a new throne and shape a crown 

(123) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

That is not meant for snarling royalty ! 

As potentates of earnest men, to have 

A court for all time, peopled from all lands! 

I found you out, and I possess you now 

By right of the discovery. Why not ? 

Sympathy knows her business. Though at times 

She must sweep through the barriers that men 

Affront her with, convulse the arrogance 

Of custom, drown in her commanding waves 

Wealth, rank and ceremony and the codes 

Of sallow and diseased propriety. 

She but expands the channel-bed o'er which 

She mistresses, pacific in her purpose. 

Sympathy merges now our impulses. 

Come you with me. 



Louisa. 



Your lips unclose my thought. 



Aivi^iERi. 
They would mclose your answer with a seal 
Of ecstasy. 

(The dramatist seises her in his embrace and she repidses 
a kiss.) 

Louisa. 

Hold, hold! The cardinal's house! 

Alfieri. 
Ah, do' not build more walls that I must scale. 

Louisa. 
The walls are set. This lawyer is not heard. 
He may persuade me — 

Ai^FiERi. 

Never ! 

(124) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Louisa, 

— to return. 

AlvFlERI. 
Yoiv're jesting, 

Louisa, 

No. The queen must face the man. 
He may present a compromise. 

A1.F1ERI. 

Ah! Then 
I'll linger to observe which way the dice 
Assort the affair, 

Louisa. 

Prudence will not permit . 
The view of you tO' whet the argument 
Of this designer, Charles's advocate, 

AlvFlERI. 
Though Prudence is a meddler, I shall not 
Seek to restrict her impudence. Indeed, 
I bind you over toi the mercy of 
Your husband's counsellor, and meekly go 
To stand a picket at the convent gate, 
Contending with impatience. I shall wait 
To hear the echo of the dice from you — 
Which will be my way, mark. 

Louisa. 

Be not so- sure, 
I may pass by you — thus — and slam the door 
In haste, as though you were a thief. 

AlfiERI. 

Not that. 
I swear I know, — And I shall wait amused 
With grateful pictures of this lawyer's wit, 

(125) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Praying he may be an examiner 

Of threatening brow and steady parrying. 

Ah, I shall find my patience as he looks 

Bold at your blushes and all-mocking cries, 

"What more?" And you shall rvm in haste — to me. 

Louisa. 

Ah, it is you that writes of tyranny, 
Teaching your pen a traitor's language while 
You rail at despots ! Still you aspire to rule 
Over a woman's purpose. 

AivFiERi — (Laughing) — 

Can it be 
That liberty is harder than restraint? 
That independence is less tolerable 
Than baneful guidance kings administer? 
You fear exprisonment more than a dungeon. 
Just as a disambitioued convict, who. 
Delivered from his cell, returns again. 
If change is despotism, then am I 
Of its apostleship. If tyranny 
Is teaching a young eagle how to fly, 
Then am I of the eyrie where 'tis taught. 
I look with heart distressed and torn upon 
Tliese boiling tubs of Europe, running full 
Of angry bubbles. I should not desire 
The mastery of the tubs, but of the bubbles 
I would be teacher, prick their vaporings. 
Inspire them with the uplift of calm reason. 
All thinking is not thought, but if you think 
Persuasion an oppressor, or the light 
A fierce invader of the darkness, hold 
It treason to the present to conspire 
With the usurping future, then I swear 
All circumstance is hostile to the soul, 

(126) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS, 

Music is blood-thirsty because it sways 
Your emotion, slumber is a spy because 
It betters your fatigued opinions, 
Your enemy has taken you by ambush 
When he makes you his friend. I'll not deny 
That I would make you happy, and to pay 
The penalty will make me happy, too. 

Louisa. 
Come — read to me. It is the cardinal's house. 
Poets should carry verses on their persons, 
Like tradesmen money. What is your latest ware? 

AlvFlERI. 
A lovely woman not prepared to smile 
Should hardly reckon on a poet's muse 
Producing verses. Still, I'll not rebel. 
Like the queen's sunny countenance, but respond 
To nature. Ah, out comes the sun. 

(^Louisa smiles, and AlfiEri draws out a manuscript.) 

Louisa — (Holding forth her hand) — 

The lines, 
CAlfiERI reluctantly yields the manuscript.) 
I'll read your thoughts. They are more decorous 
In the thrice-tempting witchery of ink 
Than in the thrice-emboldened accents of 
Their undertaking. It is safer to 
Imprison a suggestion in a verse 
Than tO' release it in bad etiquette. 

fLouiSA reads alone.) 

Alfieri — (Aside) — 
Bad etiquette ! Are poetry and art 
Refuges to keep poets and artists out 
Of mischief, the asylum of the emotions ? 

(127) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

She reads my two' odes to America. 
To write of independence, in her eyes, 
Is wiser than to fight for it. Ah, well. 
The queen has not yet banished me for that. 
Perhaps — perhaps, she finds rebellion 
Against the state the sweeter license in 
A lover. 

(The Duke: of' Ckri and the Spanish ambassador, Gri- 
MALDi^ also the Duchess Zagarolo, enter.) 

Grimaldi. 

Ah! And do we find you waiting? 

AeeiKRI. 
Never, your grace. The man who tarries in 
The expectancy of events takes his own life. 
Time is all useful and impatience loss. 
I have been thinking, and the Countess reads ; 
But we are happy in your coming. 

Louisa — (Folding the manuscript) — 

Good! 
The Count speaks for me. 

Grimaldi. 

But — Antigone ? 

AlfiERI. 
She is committed tO' the destiny 
Of all imagination — criticism. 
Duke, let us clear the center. To' begin. 
We shall take up Scene 2, Act III. (To Ceri.J This 

way. 
Creon stands haughty here, with you beside 
His throne. Ah, Duchess, you, — Antigone — 
Come bound in chains, dejected, yet with firm 
Demeanor. When I speak, Antigone 

(128) 




The Alfieri Monument at Florence (Canova) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Stands high, erect, and looks me eye to eye. 
"Approach : thou findest me, Antigone,* 
"Much more disposed to favor than before. 
"Not that I deem thy enterprise less guilty, 
"Or the annexed affliction less thy due. 
"Paternal love, more than the love of justice, 
"Hath wrought this change. My son most fervently 
"Hath asked for thee my pardon, and obtained it, 
"Provided that thou pledge thyself — " 

ZagaroIvO — (As Antigone) — 

"To what?" 

A1.F1ERI. 
Ah, the superbest lightning in your eye! 
"To give him in my sight without delay 
"A recompense he well deserves — thy hand." 

Ceri — (As Haenwn) — 
"Pardon, Antigone— I never asked 
"So great a blessing. He would give thee to me: 
"I wished alone to rescue thee from death." 

Aeeieri. 
"On this condition thou obtain'st thy pardon." 

Zagarolo. 
"Does Creon offer kindness? Ah, tO' me 
"What kindness can he show so great as death? 
"Death can alone eternally remove me 
"From thy detested sight." 

(A servant enters, who delivers a message to Louisa. j 

Louisa. 

Antigone, 
Forget your lines awhile. The cardinal 



♦Bowring's Translation. 

(129) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Has seiit a message to me. If alone, 

He'll come to me. I dare not cross his wish. 

Alfieri. 
We'll choose another stage. 

Louisa. 

Try yonder room. 
(To servant.) Direct them to the cardinal's library. 
I shall attend you presently. 

Alfieri — (To LouisAJ — 

This man — 
This fellow — comes to plead. The convent gate, 
Remember. I shall wrait — 

Louisa. 

Ah, do not watch 
For me, say, longer than a fortnight. I 
Shall quite forget you in so long a time. 

AlfiERI. 
Ho! I will make you come with all my strengfth. 

(Exeunt all save Louisa^ the party of players retiring to 
the right. The Countess stands transfixed, but 
presently recovers herself and glides tozvard the zmn- 
dow on the left.) 

Louisa. 
I had not guessed I was afraid — till now : 
Afraid to follow impulse and afraid 
To tarry. It is cruel to a woman 
To burden with discretion her desire. 
She should be swept with torrents that her soul 
Might never say she did it. Had I been 
Seized by the strongest current and borne out 
Beyond my moorings, then the thing were done 

(130) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

And certitude had swallowed up my fears. 
Here I stand trembling lest I do his wish 
Of my own choice. I am the arbiter. 
Perhaps this lawyer may devise a way 
To save me from decision, from myself. 

(As Louisa stands meditating before the ivindoiv, the 
Cardinal enters zmth Broglio.j 

Broguo. 
And yet I must forbid her writing, lest 
Her friends of Florence know he came not here. 

Cardinal. 
Invent, invent — the truth — truth's shape, which may 
Compose her mind and keep her ignorant. 
'Twere better still to reveal the whole affair. 
Louisa, turn. Our friend, the advocate. 

(^Louisa has turned from the windozv aftd nozv recognizes 
Broguo. ) 

Louisa. 
'Tis you, then — you ! Not the ambassador 
Of law. A spy, who tricked my house into 
The attitude of wrong, artfully crept 
Into the breast of hospitality ! 
Huckster of honor ! You were at my house 
A month of misery ago. 

Cardinal. 

Your tongue 
Is frenzied. Stop! Your anger has unthroned 
Your better nature, sister. The mistake 
Is all my own. My gnest is innocent. 

(131) 



THE LAST OP THB STUARTS. 

Louisa. 
Pardon me, brother. It was a swift dash 
Of feeling. Speak. 

Cardinal. 

My visitor is not 
A lawyer. 

Louisa. 

Ah, I am to deal with him 
As other men. I crave your pardon, sir, 
For misaccusing. 

Brogi.10 — (Bozmng) — 

'Tis your highness' right. 

Louisa. 
I pray you: not "your highness." 'Tis not mine. 
I've gained a higher title. I'm a woman. 

Broguo. 
My mission to your house concerned not you; 
My mission here, not you, except in this : 
Charles Edward's friend, though not your enemy, 
I must request that in your letters to 
Your friends — and his — at Florence you refrain 
From saying that he is not here — in Rome — 
And at his brother's house. 

Louisa. 

Here? 
Cardinal,. 

Rather, if 
You tell them — . No, I may not counsel lies. 

Louisa. 
Is Charles in Rome ? 

Cardinal,. 

No. Truly, child, he is 
Not here. 

(132) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Louisa. 
What means this solemn mystery- 
Over something that is not? 

Cardinal. 

Enough of this. 
T^ell everything. The truth is good enough 
For Stuarts. Reveal the matter, Brogho. 

Broguo. 
Can you withhold his mention from your tongueti 

Louisa. 
Only what's of the heart is of the speech ; 
And neither love nor hate of him lies here. 

Broglio. 
Your highness, you will yet be queen in fact, 
Co-monarch of three British reahns. The king, 
Your husband, generals ten thousand men. 
Faced toward the country of his fathers. 

Louisa, 

True? 
Then — I am saved. 

Broglio. 

If safety is your view, 
You are in danger of becoming queen. 
The thing is true: — if reason so conceive 
The function of a fact. Beheve me that. 
Take a friend's counsel : check your countenance, 
Your highness, from th' appearance of disdain, 
T^hat your coming tO' the throne be decently 
Apported. 

Louisa. 

"Highness" — still yon call me that! 
Moreover, I'm a woman. 

(133) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Broglio. 

Possible 
For woman to achieve to majesty. 

Louisa. 
Ah, you remember well, the ministers 
Of France contrived the alliance oi the king 
With me, Louisa von Stolberg-Gedern. I, 
Perhaps, consented through ambition. 
My youthful hopes were but the vapors of 
The potage, vanity. But in the world 
The passing years distill the blackest dreams — 
And even Louisa may have purity 
Jewelled like dew upon her fanciful 
Heart-petals. Once, I had been queen. 
To-day — . Ah, even a queen must think. 

f Louisa turns again to the windozv on the left.) 

Cardinal — (To Broglio j — 

How true! 
For does not thinking rescue many times 
The judgment from false rhapsodies? 

Broglio. 

Indeed ! 
I had forgot the queen while thinking of 
His majesty. The snare of snares! The queen 
Shall bind up Britain's homage in her smile. 

Cardinal. 
The minister of her ambition 
May save her soul from folly. 

Broglio. 

Foolish, indeed, 
If she lend not her fascination to 

(134) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

The conquering of subjects. What say you 
To sending her to Paris, Louis's court ; 
Whence the report of beauty's triumph may 
Be quickly spread to England ? 

Cardinal. 

Were it wise 
To thus alarm the British government, 
Whose ears are ever pricked to hear a sound ? 
Besides, that would release religion's hold 
Upon her heart-strings. Be content to gain 
This promise from her : to remain in Rome — 
The convent; later to rejoin the king 
In England. 

Broglio. 

Speak to her, your reverence. 
Persuade her first she is "her majesty." 

Cardinal. 
Louisa, turn. I greet your majesty. 

Broglio. 
France, too, pays tribute to your majesty. 

Louisa. 
I am a woman, truly. (To Broglio. j Who are you, 
That you convey this news ? Is not the thing 
Conditioned on some miracle? 

('Duke Grimaldi enters hastily and cuts off a reply from 
Broglio.j 

Grimaldi. 

Ho, ho! 
The marshal, Broglio. (They draw aside.) 

Cardinal — (To LouiSAJ — 

He is from France, 

(135) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Her confidential agent, with success 
In the palm of his hand. Grimaldi knows — . (They 
talk.) 

Grimaldi — (To BroglioJ — 
And does she hesitate ? 

Brogi.10. 

'Tis dread of Charles. 

Grimai^di. 
Afifairs of spite are nO' release from duty. 
Let Spain be heard awhile. Your majesty, 
Let me rejoice with you that a girl's prayer 
Is now a woman's pleasure. Good at cards, 
Supreme at ruling men. My maxim, friends. 
The queen plays whist as though 'twere winning thrones. 
Our venture's fully launched — the ambassador 
Of Spain would not deceive a woman. Well — 
It is my counsel that the queen await 
The consummation at her palace-seat 
In Florence, to amuse her acquaintances 
Out of their gossip, lest suspicion 
Spread injury to the cause. She should embark 
At once. The matter has more than it should 
Gone unprotected in the mouths of friends. 
I know her answer. 

Cardinal. 

Sister, do yon hear? 

Louisa. 
I'm thinking that Count Alfieri left 
Hjis manuscripts. 

(She picks up the poems lately placed upon the table.) 

(136) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Grimai^di. 

No- matter. He is g-one. 
Grimaldi will provide for their return. 

(The Duke takes the manuscripts from the hand of 
Louisa^ now left alone in the foreground. Enter a 
servant.) 

Louisa — (Alone) — 
I may not purchase, only price the crown. 
When shall I leave, Grimaldi? (Turns.) Where's the 
duke ? 

(The Cardinal recevz'cs a message from the servant.) 

Cardinal. 
Impossible ! 

Broguo, 
A slip ! 

Grimaldi, 

Repeat the word — . 

(Enter Charles Edward, intoxicated. He reels past 
the three men. Louisa turns azvay.) 

Charles. 
Louisa! Brother — look. Where did you hide 
Louisa ? 

Louisa — (To Grimaldij — 

Quick ! The poems — where are they ? 

fLouiSA seises Alfieri's mamiscripts from the hand of 
the Duke. Exit.) 

(137) 



THB LAST OF THB STU ART S 

Charles. 
Did not I see Louisa here just now ? 



(Curtain.) 




(138) 






The 3tifth cAct 

A DECANTER OF WINE 

Place — Rome. 

Time — Morning. Tzvo days have elapsed. 
Scene — Another room in the house of the Car- 
dinal oE York. 

Who is it sits at yonder table zwiting? The Marshal 
DE Broglio — no other. If you wish to know ivhat 
the alphabet zuas made for, ask a Frenchman. The 
alphabet zvas made to preserve language — and 
French is that language. Give it to a Frenchman 
to say a thing, and to an Englishman to anszver it: 
the history of diplomacy and war. The Marshal 
is not zuriting altogether, either. Why not an oc- 
casional sip of the Cardinal's good zvine to inspire 
tlie\ proceedings of state? I sometimes wonder if 
French zvine and French zvit are not of the same 
vintage. A decanter of rare blossom may make a 
zvhole nation laugh — if it is not made to sob. 
Broglio's decanter is engaged in a more solemn 
enterprise than the making of laughter or tears. 

Yes, I had observed the canopy in the rear, and I zvas 
about to remark that this must be the throne room 
of the unseated Stuart. The elevated chair of 
solemn massiveness and elaborate carvings zvill serve 
as a reminder of ancestral royalty, while the arms of 

(139) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Great Britain complete the illusion handsomely. The 
four standards and their canopy may keep otf the 
weather. Do you decipher the words, Sir Leslie, 
upon the red banner hearing the zvhite space in the 
center? "Tandem Triumphans." It is the banner 
of the Chevalier Charees Edward Stuart^ the 
ensign of the last pretender in '45. 

Brogeio. 
"R TTY dear Choiseul — " (A pause.) What may one 
■'••"■• build from sand? 

The duke can read ! The black impossible 
Is not the white of possible. The trey 
And deuce cannot be made two' sixes, for 
Down is not up. Surely he understands 
A truth an infant were too' wise to^ utter — 
Unless the child become philosopher, 
And too much brains discover doubt of it. 
'Twill answer. (Seals letter.) Now another — which is 

not 
Soi deep a task. 'Tis harder to explain 
Misfortune tO' a statesman than a fool. 
Fools do' not argue why a thrashing hurts. 
"To' your most gracious, Christian majesty — " 
Decorum is a stilted idiot. 

(He rings a so'vants' bell and continues writing. Bntei' 
servant.) 

The king may not be seen ? 

Servant. jj. . ^ 

His majesty 

Is in retirement, but — 

Brogeio. ^. ,^ ^^ 

No matter. Stay. 

Give this tO' York — his reverence. Through him 

(140) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

'Twill find due lodgment in the king's regard. 
This — pO'St. No — (Exit servant) — I shall care for it — 
myself. 

(Brogl.io empties the goblet of zvine, and prepares to de- 
part.) 

At least, the time was spent in Italy. 

Cardinal — (Entering zvith letter) — 
Peace, marshal. Do you go? 

Broguo. 

Yes. Back to France. 

Cardinal. 
And Charles — ? 

Broglio. 

Apprised by letter — through your hands. 
Deliver it, I pray you, when he cures. 
Adieu. 

Cardinal. 

Adieu. (Exit Broguo. j 

(His reverence sits and scans the letter.) 

The stare of secrecy 
Is on it. An expansive cliff could not 
Look with less meaning; still, I understand. 
He shall not break the staring seal until 
Religion choose to let it speak to him. 
This cannot mend his brain. My craft concerns 
The majesty of heaven, more than this crown. 
I had foresworn the trinket long agO', 
But for French wit that must repeat the joke. 
His thought is withered. It must be refreshed 

(141) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

With something that has vintage in the stars. 
Rehgion yet remains. — I'm thinking of you, Charles. 

(The Pretender enters, stepping slowly and with a pal- 
sied gait. He casts a glance upon the mimic throne 
and stops before his brother.) 

Charles. 
Forgive me, brother : I am king again. 

Cardinal. 
Forgive? Your words have answered to your soul's 
Entreaty, when you named me brother. King? — 
King, did you say? First of a realm the king 
Has not yet secretly invaded, here — 

(The Cardinal inclines his ear to^. the Pretender's 
breast as it were to listen to the throbbing of his 
heart.) 

I heard the drum. The world and all its realms 
Await the conquering of such a king. 

(The Pretender turns to the throne and steps upon the 
platform.) 

Charles. 
An act of kindness from a brother's hands. 
I crown myself. The world has seen me stripped. 
You see me clothed. And when it looks again, 
England its monarch may discern. My reign 
Begins. (He sits.) 

Cardinal. 

You speak with fire. 

(142) 



THB LAST OF THB STUARTS. 

Charles. 

And do you feel 
My brain between your fingers, crumbling 
Like ashes ? (Rises.) Ho ! My body chills with age — 
They think. The thaw is on. Mark that. 

Cardinal. 

Your meaning? 

Charles. 
My meaning? What! You do not know? Did not 
The marshal make you sharer of my plans ? (Descends.) 

Cardinal. 
He did. 

Charles. 

Why then this questioning ? I mean 
The thing that's meant. I leave forthwith for Spain. 

Cardinal, 
Tomorrow ? 

Charles. 

Now — if Broglio is here 
To reacquaint me with — . No matter. He — 
Has mastery of the thing. I may forget 
Instructions. And besides, Louisa — where? — 

(The Cardinal funis azvay for the moment.) 

I'll see her here. She will be reconciled. 
Here let her stay, to abide th' enthronement of 
Her lord, myself. I was too cruel, no doubt — 
Too petulant in straining our desire 
Beyond th' appointed moment. It is come. 
The dial of regnancy has circled 'round 
To Stuart's hour. — Where's Broglio? 

(143) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

Cardinal. 

Gone out. 
(Aside.) The letter speaks for him — the only thing. 

CharIvES. 
He will return ? 

Cardinal — (Presenting letter) — 
Here's his apology. 
For you to await his person had delayed 
The message. 

Charles — (Taking the letter) — 

Thank you. Just as politic. (He opens 
clumsily mid reads.) 
This Frenchman comes tO' nothing. On ! — read on ! 
I find no end. What does the devil say ? 
Translate the prolix into brevity. 

(The Pretender returns the note to the Cardinal, zvho 
reads.) 

I wait. 'Tis some delay from France, no doubt. 

But what of that ? May France invade the moon — 

Play no^one false save moon-conspirators. 

The king of England will not wait for him, 

If, waiting, he must pass petitions through 

The brain of Louis. Such delay becomes 

Disease. Hope is a crime when desperation 

Is hope's reward. 'Tis a celestial flower, 

Blooming upon a cloud that promises 

The wafture of one's enterprise to- heaven. 

Strip it — the venture's but a stalk. 

Cardinal. 

He says — 
When words are voided through the seive — he says 

(144) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS, 

The creeds of politics forbid the stake 
Of his court's honor on the game you play. 
The instrument faults in its edge. A worm 
Cankers the tooth whereby he aimed the bite. 
The fabric, majesty, is flawed — 

Charles. 

Destruction 
Take his worms and cankers ! Stuart's purpose 
Has got velocity from his French craft. 
What more is needed ? — since the drunken worm 
And much-wined canker have an edge in sheath 
As superfine and certain as e'er cleaved 
The sections of a French diplomatist's • 

vVar maxim. Charles will show you. 

(The Pretender has stopped before the table upon which 
sits the decanter of wine. He tremblingly Mis the 
goblet.) 

Cardinal. 

Stay ! Beware 
That food. 

Charles. 

The food of anger — will. 

Cardinal. 

Indeed, 
A painted will ! An artifice, the trick 
Of gorgeous tapestries ! 

Charles. 

Not that. I need 
My anger. Now I think of it, my throat's 
A desert, 

(145) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS, 

Cardinal. 
King ! — refrain. 

Charles — (In the midst of his drinking) — 
To Spain tonight! 
A torrent to convulse the channel of 
Vain dreaming. Hark you, we shall meet a throne. 
A throne ! You were quite right to call me king. 
A harmless cup of majesty — that drives 
The blood of certainty throughout the veins 
Of the king's sword. My Spanish cohorts wait 
The coming of their wine-cup, heaven's prince. 
Listen. The echo of the drum that beats 
Within my breast — they strain their ears for that. 
They shall not bide too long the monarch's soul — 
The soul that leaps in lightning to the eye. 
In valor to the angle of the arm. 
Again, again. The valiant regiments ! (Pours.) 

Cardinal. 
No more, no more ; for — Broglio waits without. 

Ch ARLES — (Drinking) — 
Command him wait — wait — wait ! Yes, bid him stay 
Immovable as statecraft, and the clock 
Stop with him, stagnant, till he resurrect 
In felstone, and the faring peasants point 
And cry, "There worships Folly heaven." Ah! — 
I lack his counsel less than the air he breathes. 
England will march tO' England without France — 
England and England's queen. Louisa — queen ! 
Where is she waiting? (Drinks.) Fly, love's wine, 

(Pours.) fly to 
Your mistress. (Drinks.) Fly! Exalt your wings to 

heaven. 
And with ethereal eloquence persuade 
An answer from her. Say, ''The king is here." 

(146) 



THB LAST Of THB STUARTS. 

There, on the nimbus of the sun, she sits, 
Queen of the Hght, my heart and England. Fly ! 
(Drinks.) 

Cardinal — (Touching a bell) — 
No more. This letter — this tells everything. 
'Twas dropped upon my table yesterday. 

('Charles takes another letter from the hand of the Car- 

DINAIvj 

Charles. 
More written pleasantries that do not please. 

Servant — (Entering) — 
Your reverence. 

Cardinal. 

Did not I give command 
To have all wine removed ? 

Servant. 

Indeed — 

Cardinal. 

And this? — 
Servant. 
'Twas at the order of your guest that sat — 

Cardinal. 
Of Broglio. Enough. Take it away. 

Charles. 
Knave, touch it not. Who "cannot stay?" Beware! 
You wrong me, brother. (Reading.) What is this ? 

Cardinal — (To servant) — 

No use. (Exit servant.) 

Charles. 
Who writes ? It reads in Babylonish bricks. 
Trail your eye through this Alpine mule-path. 

(147) 



THB LAST OF THB STUARTS 

Cardinai. — (Taking the letter) — ^ , 

'Tis from Louisa. 

Charles. 

Eh? The queen? And where — ? 

Cardinal. 
She is not here. 

Charles — (Pouring) — 

I asked not where she's not. 

Cardinal. 
H«r majesty, the queen, has gone from Rome — 
To Germany. 

(The Pretender drops the goblet upon the floor.) 

Charles. 

To Herenhausen ? Lie ! 
Tb drink, and laugh, from Brunswick's Rhenish cups? 
To dwell with thieves and the ungraced of God, 
Who smear her monarch's throne with the vile snuff 
Of Lotzbeck? Ugh! I will not foster an 
Indictment that breaks down love's blood in palsy. 
Wait till I have news. 

Cardinal. 

She will not write — 
(Aside.) Better to tear from under every stone 
That he may build upon. 

She will not write. 
I know that well. She will not. She is gone 
With this soft interloper — him that writes ; 
That writes deceits and documents of love. 
I know him, cavallero, poet. Rhymes 
That cheat a husband of his house ! Besides — 
To Germany ! A double treachery ! 

(148) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

To wed Hanover, foiling God's majesty 

Of his loved country's king. Traitress as well 

As faithless. Exile! — long may she adore 

Her poet and her beer. Come, wine and I — (Searches 

for the goblet) — 
And Spain — and wine — will haste to England. Drink 
For a bird's voyage : wings may laugh at waves, 
Even if we have no vessel. Where's the cup? 

(He seizes the decanter.) 

England's whole navy ! (Drinks.) 

CardinaIv. 

Can this nightmare end ? 
At morning — that is yonder. 

(The Pretender reels hackzvard across the room, de- 
canter in hand, and recovering his equilibrium, re- 
places the decanter upon the table. The Cardinal 
turns to the mantel and rests his face upon his 
hands.) 

Charles. 

I'll have music — 
Mirth-clad, mellow, saturating music. 
Come, Domenico — the spinet. Play — 
The strathspey. Let me think the number. What ! — 
Music is false to me? Another tongue 
That joins my queen and recreant land against 
Their lord? — swears treachery beside them? (With a 

voice full of agony.) Music ! — 
Art thou, too, of Germany ? The king 
Must know you dead, the last of all his friends. 
My tears were honorable upon thy bier. 
Not could I weep if music mocked her king, 

(149) 



THE LAST OP THE STUARTS. 

Living and silent. I will choke the voice 
That soils her honor to deny her dead. 
No more her whisper, never more her song, 
Domenico, Domenico — she is dead. 

(The Pretender falls prostrate upon the sofa.) 

Cardinal. 
The spirit's plumes are fluttering in exhaustion. 
To sleep, poor child — ^the broken-hearted bairn 
Of gray locks. 

(The Cardinal closes the window shutter, and after 
smoothing the brow of Charles^ picks up the de- 
canter.) 

Never more of this. The last. (Exit.) 

(The Pretender lies for a time benumbed. Shortly he 
rises upon his arm.) 

Charles. 
Is Charles alone, and does his brain discern 
Only fantastic scarlet ? — the mirage 
Of torrid sands? — a palpitating film, 
Of silken likeness to dawn's images ? 
Have thine eyes mortal wings, which thus transport 
From the hot winds of hell these glaring balls? — 
Gazing like conscience on me? Look from me, 
And gaze on devils, I am of the earth, 
The sceptered of Jehovah's wisest world ; 
And none may dare to rip the curtain of 
My solitude, to pierce the inviolate. 
Whose eyes are ye? — if language ye have learned 
From thrusting your sharp swords of vision through 

(150) 



THH LAST OF THE STUARTS, 

The lies of many tongues. Ho ! Fleance — sire ! (Rises to 

his feet.) 
Our Fleance, first of kings begotten ! Friend, 
Whose father Banquo, the progenitor 
Of Stuarts, sighed his last breath in murder. Say — 
Thou wilt not harm thy son, whose wintry hairs 
Attest no crime but being ? Who atones 
The crime, which, counting back to the first springs 
Of my nativity contributive, 
Fixes on fewer sires and, firstly, one — 
The only answerable? 

We may not quarrel 
With shifting seeds, or with the vagrant sands. 
I come to tell thee, Death, how Life obeys 
Each signal of the sun. Day's subject still, 
I speak but cringe, lest Day may glare me silent. 
— Treasons still fruit, and every dawn begets 
A brood of worms. Customs grow heretic, 
That God's weak will is thwarted when he wills 
A king. Thou whom old Death hath robed in mist, 
Hear me : Death's vapors rise and rise and mark 
The heavens with white memories of earth, 
But the old evils drop. And, positing 
New forms — old ills — , what good were Death, save but 
To leave the devil in late-conjured shapes? 

Stay, eyes ; close not. Death weighs its lids upon 

You heavy. Gone! The dark is fearless. Whence 

Shall purpose come, that armies may affright. 

Or weeping melt, what is not? If the day 

Winks merry its departure, what am I, 

To grieve for smiles that I behold no more? 

Laugh, yesterdays, in the oblivion 

Ye dawn upon ; and may strange men arise 

To pluck ye better at your further bloom. 

(151) 



THE LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Gone? No, the king spake false. Returned, perhaps. 
Strange — others come to writhe the roots of my hair. 
I know you, Bruce — ^bold Bruce of Bannockbum ! 
God raised you up, but God — where is he now ? 
Whom shall men crown, if God uncrowns his kings? 
Not chance-wit scullions, whose blood is mixed 
With the rank pottage of long servitude ! 
Such is the choice, if noble heads conspire; 
And if usurpers blaspheme 'gainst the throne. 
They preach the way to public blasphemy. 
Robert, the Earl of Carrick, whose destiny 
Hung tense upon a spider's web, uphold 
The lash of a long scourge of kings, until 
It smite with its sharp cry the sleeping ears 
Of the usurper. Look — an answer! Out! — 
The vision dies. Its way is always so : 
Toward the accomplished darkness. 

These succeed. 
Succession's fix-ed lips reply once more — 
Silence, the speech that is the grave of speech. 
Whose are ye? Of the universe? — the dumb. 
Heaped up, old centuries, quarreling from 
Their loom and tangled midst eternity ? 

More kings ! — whose mother's soul was only half 
Repaid with joy enough for getting you. 

Back, back ! A dastard's blow ! — to meet a man 
Thus unattended by his scabbard. Coward ! 
The king lies dead. 

Another! — on the field. 
My brain perceives the name of yonder walls. 
A noble fall that Roxburgh shall confirm 
Its memory by. 

(152) 



THB LAST OF THB STUARTS. 
And Sauchie-bum! 

Hold !— there 
Disaster wreaks his bloodiest skill upon 
The turf of Flodden. I will swear you brave 
Henceforth. 

More murder ! Hell's own echo of 
Earth's deeds ! 

Eternal God ! A woman comes, 
With beauty and the crucifix. And death 
Drapes the hard shadow of men's hearts about 
Her bosom. Stay — pray not. This devil's deed 
Weighs heaven's rapture past a thousand-fold. 
Cry out, ye doors ! Thou darkness, shriek with light ! 
And summon celestial hindrance to this — . Love! — 
Pity ! — and mercy ! — cannot look ; nor I. 
Emotion freezes. Mother, was there pain 
I could not feel for thee? And did the heart 
Utter in angnish words my far-off ears 
Could hear not? Weep, my birth, whose summons came 
Too late to comfort — not with life, but death 
Robed in compassion. Grieve, tardy Charles, 
Or curse the line of sires that stood you off. 
I was in ignorance. 

May God defend ! 
Another climbs the stair, with heaven's locks 
Strewn from his gemless diadem upon 
Him. Now, the tresses of the cavalier 
Should foil the edge, though grace forbear it not 
Like a bewildered rose among the snarls 
And brambles, sways the flower of monarchs. Wake! — 
Pass on, mad brain, and teach me not this tale. 

(153) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Was one, and she a woman, not enough ? 
Enough! 

My father's father, next of stem. 
Proud exile! Who am I, that I should share 
Disease as honorable as thine? Bend not 
Upon thy staff : it bends my spirit's bones. 

Another exile walks the dark outside. 

My father's immortal heart still loves me. Come — 

Thy hand to lean my lips upon. Compressed 

In that one pause of fervor, eloquence 

Remits her ecstasy. Thus do I speak 

Unto the hand that lost a Scotland. 

Ah!— 
A Scotland lost? Nay — earned. The king is here, 
Come to his own land. How can they require 
A prince to bloom, save from his country's soil? 

The liquid dawn anoints the hill. 
These highland shouts, the pibroch shrill. 
Convulse Glenfinnan's early dews. 
Ho, Moray ! Ride, and rank the blues 
About the banner. Tartan plaids 
And bonnets, sit upon your lads. 
Let Scotland's diadem amerce 
The pride of Britain's bastard curse; 
The day that fares your sovereign worse 
May never blossom here. 

The standard ! — see. My mountaineers 

Embank the hillside high with cheers — 

The cry I cut upon the stone 

Of memory for Caledone. 

Yon banner cries aloft and wreathes 

(154) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS 

Its lips in fury. Stay— it breathes 
War's raptures from the tartan pipes; 
It scents the glory ere it ripes. 
There on the wind my soul unfurls 
And writes its name in silken swirls. 
It writes, but would it, if it could, 
A paction save in German blood ? 
The virtue of the maiden's snood 
Conditions yonder flag. 

The gale is up ; my thistles speed 
Enraptured 'cross the western mead. 
And who be these that scale the crag ? 
And these that come with kilt and bag 
And loyal fly to Scotland's weal ? 
MacDonald, Murray and Lochiel, 
Clanranald, Keppoch, Moidart's seven, 
Meet for your prince's pride of heaven. 
Brandish your claymores. By my boast, 
The throttle of Prince Charlie's host 
The breath of yon usurper's ghost 
Shall choke within its gulp. 

Scale o'er the crags. Ye headsmen, scoot 
Your snorting nags, and follow, foot. 
They spread — ^my hardy mountaineers — 
Like thistles, fearless of their fears, 
Unto Dunedin's welcome muirs. 

Ah !— Gladsmuir heath. There Cope arrives ; 
The flaunt of Brunswick's banner thrives 
In his advance. Retreat shall drag 
The mires of Preston with this flag. 
Down from the heights my Myrmidons 
Sweep like a torrent o'er their bones. 

(155) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS 

A torrent's task, a torrent's rout — 
Wherepast a child might harder flout 
A brood of chickens from his path. 
And tears, repenting useless wrath, 
Baptise the victor by the faith 
Of Christian charity. 

At Holyrood my vision spends 
4 A heart-beat's passing, and descends 

In ardor on my eyes ; 
At Holyrood, where beauty spurns 
The treason George as booty earns 

But worships as a prize ; 
At Holyrood, the hallowed place. 
Whose lamps glow brilliant by the grace 
Of laughter on each lass's face 

And fade if beauty dies. 

The minuet ! — ah, phantom night 
That lives its laughter by the right 
Of one swift torture of delight, 

Tom from conspiring frowns! 
The dream that Scotland's cavalier 
Discerns fantastic through a tear ! — 
The place is Edinburgh, and 'Forty-five the year. 

No more the gallants. Border-men 
Rise out of them, nor dance again. 
Dropped from the toe upon the heel 
With Murray, Keppoch and Lochiel, 
Their music is the martial peal 

Of trumpets to the fray. 
Mine eyes are drunken with the change 
From mirth to blinding mist. How strange 

I cannot see the way ! 

(156) 




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THE LAST OF THE STUARTS, 

Stay — 'tis the march on Londontown, 

By sward and river, crag and down. 

By Sheridan to Derby sweep, 

But let determination sleep, 

That Scotland's soul may never weep 

Its last disgrace again. 
What faltering prowess backward sped ! 
What vintage ! — could that prowess tread 
The wine- fat of the Brunswick dead. 

Alas ! Where are you, men ? 

It taunts me as it swiftly runs. 
Mad brain, a cataract of suns, 

My dizzy sight betray. 
Falkirk forgets its conquest's ease, 
Now swallowed up in war's disease. 
A skulker in the Hebrides 

Shall think on war's dismay. 

The fate, the wrath, of yon retreat ; 
Culloden's teeth of biting sleet ; 
The tempest poured by heaven's hand 
(A carnage not of Cumberland) : 
They gnaw my bosom as my sight 
Concerns the memory of their blight. 
Ah, clansmen, could you stand and fight 
The hornets at your bay ! 

He may not look upon thy loss. 
Fair Scotland, dying on the cross ; 
He may not look — thine exiled king — , 
Groaning the scourge of every sting 

Upon thy loyalty. 
He may not mock thee with his breath, 
His memories disdaining death. 
The living symbols of his faith — . 

Down, standard ; fall with me. 

(157) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS, 

(The Pretender violently seises the Jacobite standard 
and drags it down. The banner falls around his 
shoulders and as he struggles from under it, his hal- 
lucinations again possess him.) 

No more ! My sight aches, and I dare not look 

Upon thee. Out ! The king commands. Again ? 

What further malady the fiends inflict 

Upon mine eye-balls ? George ! — sitting in pomp. 

I will not see thee ; for to look upon 

Thine infamy of theft, were tO' give grace 

Of honest favor to thee. Traitor, too, 

If I should look on treason. — Eyes of a toad, 

Mouth of a lecher. Moon- faced ! Travesty 

Upon God's image! Hide thy fat creation's 

Blasphemy of feature. 

Art thou gone? 
— Devil's redemption ! One usurper out, 
Another in. Louisa, fair disdain 
Of kings, and he of gallantry. When love 
Is poison, how is it desired ? When love 
Repulses life, how is it longer love? 
How many seasons alien was mine age 
From thy nativity, that we could not 
Inhabit one desire? The separation 
Bitterest of them all is that which drives 
Into the Scythian exile of decay. 
Youth loves its prime, and senile voyagers 
Outcast their palsied sympathies alone. 
Ovidius wooed his wife to exile. Nay — 
But he, Ovidius, was young. While I 
In Death's womb only am unborn. I go 
To the caress of motherhood that can 
But let me sleep an infant's slumber ever. 
Yea, I leave these toys behind. 

(158) 



THB LAST OF THE STUARTS. 

(The Pretender jerks down the canopy upon his shoul- 
ders, overturning its supports. He stands in the 
midst of wreckage, clinging to the canopy and con- 
templating the destruction he has wrought.) 

Their death is Earth's. 
Monarchs themselves shall teach the lesson of 
Monarchs no more — I am the last of kings. 

What writes he on the wall ? — a convent wall. 

The scrawl is "Tyranny." A double taunt, 

His of my majesty and hers, my love. 

Thou, thou, upon his arm — why didst thou leave 

Me childless ? Stay ! A child ! Hold, vision, hold ; 

Thou hast forgot a chapter of the tale. 

The rest is owed to me — . 

(The Pretender falls backward upon the sofa. Miss 
Walkinshaw enters running, in traveling dress, 
opens the shutters and throws herself upon her 
father.) 

Miss Walkinshaw. 

Father, I come. 
Who tortures my old father at the gate ? 

Charles — (Rising slightly) — 
'Tis Clementina's child. (Kisses her several times.) 

What rest they bring! 
Thou art the only music left a king. 

(The Pretender falls hack dead and his morganatic 
daughter stoops upon the floor beside him weeping 
as she seizes his limp hand and presses it to her lips.) 

(Curtain.) 
(159) 



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